Disclaimer: The character's are Tolkien's, not mine.

Author's note: I think these two characters go well together. We never learn the fate of Nellas, so I don't see why she could not have fled the ruin of Doriath for other lands. I know it is short, but these are meant to be vignettes.

Paths that meet

The ocean. So pure, so calm and peaceful. Gently lapping at his feet, frothy and white, yet hidden is its cold treacherousness. He walks alone, casting a desolate figure over the already bleak landscape. Who would come here now? The Elves have left Middle-Earth, forsaking it, the land of their toil and woes, for Aman, the Blessed Realm. Not all, though.

The one here walks stooped, but once he stood tall and proud, a prince among Elves. Now, he is a mere shadow of his former self. Gone are his brothers, his family, even his enemies, and they were many in later days. All that remains of the objects that were once the centre of his existence is the memories inside him. Its presence tormented him, tortured him unbearably, and so he thought only one option was left: standing in the shallow waters he gripped the object tightly in a sweaty palm, curved his arm upwards in a perfect arc, and released It. Faintly he heard the sound It made, as It touched the surface of the sea then sank to a watery grave. Had he now defiled the waters? Or on the contrary, blessed them with the priceless jewel of his father?

On he went, farther up the coast, for at night he imagined the Silmaril as a beacon shining at the bottom of the sea, flashing, calling to him. What he wanted now was a quiet life, of solitude, reflections and singing his pains and regrets to the wind; but above all living as simply and reclusively as possible.

There was one though, who lay hid in the trees but espied him from afar. She had lived alone for long years, but not here, in other woods, in another time. Little did she know of the ways of the wide world for she spoke to none. But…a boy she knew once, in his childhood, dark featured, handsome and tall. She had not been afraid of him, and had taught him the rudimentary ways of the wild. Then he grew older and she stayed the same, but he called no more for her. She heard that he went to fight in Dimbar, and then when he came back, he was in trouble. Beleg, the kind huntsman had persuaded her to come before Thingol, because she had seen the boyish man again, in the midst of the trouble. Oh! She had been awed by the vast halls of Menegroth, the riches, the smells, the ornate carvings, but more than anything else, laying eyes on Elu Thingol, and Melian, who was, apparently, a Maia. She had managed to redeem the wronged man, but he was long gone. How could he now be pardoned? She never knew what came of that. She passed out of all knowledge and retired to a favourite tree, whose branches were lithe and smooth, and watched idly the world go by. But not all were idle.

She knew the Elf standing before her now. He had been running fast, desperately, through her land, as if pursued by wild dogs, or perhaps something far worse? And she remembered the red! The cries were muffled and scarcely reached her ears, but the burning of Menegroth one could see many miles away: Trees burning, smoke rising, grey air.

Strangely though, she did not hold him to blame; but still, she feared him. There had been other elves too; one who sought long and hard in the woods for something or someone, and who nearly discovered her.

Could she still be afraid? His face was drawn and tight, the few times she saw his eyes they seemed filled with unshed tears, with sadness and…regret?

He sighed. What now? He wondered how Maedhros was faring, but deep inside him he knew his brother had passed to Mandos' Halls. He must have felt the pain and anguish too, but surely ere the end he knew that the oath was void. If only Russandol had listened before! They would not have stolen the jewels, but gone back to Aman, the land of their birth, to be judged fairly, for they were hardly innocent, and deserved whatever punishment they were sentenced to.

Could she call to him? She didn't know if she dared, she was so very shy. Yet she saw his bent form, singing softly to himself, gazing at the swirling waves, and she pitied him. Maybe she would help him? She wasn't sure she was capable of such a thing, but what of Túrin, surely she had been of some help to him? She extended a pale arm fleetingly, then drew it back.

He wanted to be alone. His kin, the Noldor, he did not want to see them again, and he wouldn't. He tried talking to the waves, telling them his deepest feelings, his shame, regret, broken ambitions, but the sea flowed on, indifferent. He could sing his laments into the wind, and imagine it carried his voice far off, which was of some comfort. The birds and beats were few, and most flew or scampered away at his approach, so he could not talk to them.

She admired his singing greatly. She remembered another elf, who was from Doriath like her, Daeron, that was his name. Sometimes his voice rang so clearly through the woods of Neldoreth that she was moved to tears. Perhaps this elf's voice was not so pure, but there was more variety to it, more life, a rawness that her ears attuned to easily.

Someone was there. It was as if a cold hand had touched his shoulder, light as a feather, but on turning around, he saw no one.

Did he feel her touch? She shrank back into the shadows, watching, waiting, apprehending his reaction. He stood up, not nearly so bent as before, and squinted in her direction, gazing at the trees. His arm left his side, and his hand was palm upwards as in a symbol of offering, offering to her?

Her own limb moved of its own accord, and there it was suddenly, lying on the elf's. Two pale hands, not entwined, simply touching, but that was enough. Then her feet moved and she came fully into the light, and he looked her up and down. Was he shocked at what he saw? He did not expect another presence, along these deserted shores, but now that he had company, would things change?

Who was she? Like a ghost she was, so pale, so fragile. Looking into her eyes he saw she was not of the Noldor but he wondered where she had come from, and how long she had been trailing him without his knowing. She looked at the ground, her cheeks tinted red, contrasting with the rest of her complexion, and he smiled. Their hands were still touching, as they stood there, frozen in time, similar to wood carvings for one and marble statues for the other. Long they stood on the shore, the moon appeared and they were bathed in a silvery light, their forms casting long shadows in the sand. Finally, the ner roused himself out of his silent state, and spoke:

'What is your name, fair elf maiden?'

'Nellas.' No more than a whisper, he scarcely saw her mouth moving.

He gazed out again, at the sea, bringer of joy or misery, at the silver crested waves that moved to a tune, not his tune.

'I am Maglor.'