---Of Maglor and Arwen - Of Meetings---

He sang a song.

It seemed that he had been signing for a very long time; ever a song of sorrow, of loss, of pain.

Ever he wandered along the shores of the sea - oftentimes it was calm, without a ripple in its waters. Other times, it was angry and restless, destroying everything that touched its surface. And sometimes, there would be ships. Ships, that even the most violent of storms would make way for.

He sang a song; of sorrow, of lost, of pain, and regret.

He was Maglor, son of Feanor - the son of a madman, ever bending to his father's will. And for this, he was punished, doomed to wander the shores of Middle-earth, ever watching the sea but never crossing it. This would be the punishment to fall upon all his kin, but his all kin had perished; thus, it was his lot to bear.

Slowly but surely, he fell into obscurity; his name became legend, his deeds became myth. And all the while, he sang, ever pining for the light.

But one day, someone sang back.

It was soft at first, even to his keen ears; he assumed he imagined it, and thought nothing more of it. It steadily grew louder, and it sounded familiar; not in voice, but in tone, for the grief and despair in that voice was great enough to match his own. And he wondered at this, for what cursed being could have sorrow as great as his own?

And then, she stepped forth; at first, he saw only saw a little; a flash of pale flesh covered by a raven tress, a dark eye filled with unshed tears. And then her beauty was seen by Maglor in its entirety, and he was nearly moved to tears himself. For it seemed to him that the daughter of Thingol and Melian, the most beautiful child of Man and Elves, was standing before him; the elf maiden who did what armies of thousands could not, whose passing all of Arda mourned. And now she was plagued by sadness, a veil of gloom cast over her beautiful face. And suddenly, Maglor longed to make her smile; to dispel her sorrow if only for a moment, to see the very light of Laurelin embodied in her smile, a smile that he had not the pleasure to behold, but was surely fair.

But alas, unless she took joy and found humor in his idiocy, that would be an impossible task; for he was struck dumb before her, unable to speak or move, surely as Beren Erchamion had all those years before.

He felt her keen eyes upon him, staring at him in confusion and wonder; which was rather strange, for surely; all that came across her were taken with her from first sight?

"Tinuviel, Tinuviel!" Maglor managed to cry, unable to think of anything else to say to the lovely creature before him, or a name of his own devising. Beren himself had screamed those words to her upon first seeing her, they said, and she had been taken with him from that moment on. However, he was not Beren Erchamion - something that most Eldar would rejoice in, for a mortal fate was an awful thing, but now he envied the ill- fated man, who was able to hold in his arms all of the beauty of Arda embodied. Then she laughed, but it was not how Maglor imagined it - it was a harsh and bitter sound, devoid of all joy or merriment.

"I have been called that name before," she said, "But I am afraid I am not the one whom you seek. For Luthien Tinuviel has long ago passed, and I am all that remains of her kin upon this earth."

'Of her kin', he wondered. Surely, she was an elvish child (but there was a mortal hardness to her features, and her eyes seemed to glow with the light of the Maia - she was truly of the line of Beren and Luthien); if so, then she had no place on Middle-earth. 'Of her kin' - perhaps she was nothing more than an illusion, a haunting glimpse of all that he had left behind, for it had been said that Luthien was the very embodiment of light. Or maybe she was a child of Elwing, perhaps, if she was of the bloodline of Luthien; or, a child of his foster-sons, Elrond and Elros?

"...Now tell me," she said after a short silence, her tone wary, "Who are you - and if you are of elvish blood, then why do you still reside in Middle-earth?"

"If...if you are indeed of the bloodline of Luthien," He managed to say, his voice wavering, "Then...then I would be your kinsman." For, if she was a direct descendent, she would have some Noldorian blood in her veins - she was not only a descendent of Luthien, but of Fingolfin his uncle as well, for the two bloodlines had long ago mingled. "And...I am a son of Feanor, nephew of your forefather Fingolfin, a cursed kindred, unaccepted among the elven kind. Therefore, I linger yet." His voice was now breathless; it had been a great labor to say only those few words, so stunning was this creature. (So stunning was she, that he was blinded and stupefied by her; for he his family was a hated and condemned kindred, and as his father would say, it took a special sort of stupidity to discuss things that were better left unsaid.)

Suddenly, the elf-maiden's expression changed; no longer one of suspicion, but of relief. (Which was rather strange - the last time he had been among his own kind, they had only expressed relief once he had left them.) "Then...then we are the same, son of Feanor; the last elves to linger upon Middle-earth. I am Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond Half-elven, and the reason that I linger is that the Doom of Luthien is soon to be my own."

And, for the first time in ages, Maglor knew a glimmer of joy; for when Arwen spoke those words, she had smiled.

She had smiled, and in that instant, Maglor thought her more beautiful than anything he had seen, more beautiful than anything he could have imagined, more beautiful than Luthien Tinuviel herself.