The red haired man stood up slowly, brushing stray strands of hair out of his eyes. There was pale sunlight filtering through the entrance of the cave, and his eyes were beginning to water from the light. He couldn't remember how long they had been closed... his memory seemed strangely vague and undefined. The only thing it seemed to register was that something terrible had happened. Something important. Trying to ignore the pounding in the back of his head, he stared down at his hands.
Burns. The skin that had once been delicate and fair was mottled with white scars, all along his palm with raised white ledges along the first knuckle of each finger... and they hurt. His mind barely seemed to register the pain and he watched with childlike confusion as he curled each of the slender fingers, finally clenching them into a tight fist. He couldn't directly remember how he had gotten the scars but he could feel it in the back of his mind, just beyond perception.
He took a few steps forward and suddenly... pain... broke through the darkness in his mind. His slender hands clenched spasmodically as white fire shot through them and up his arms. The memory that had been tauntingly close before seemed to recede as the pain broke over him and his knees buckled, sending him to the ground, As if from a long way off he noticed that his fingernails had broken the scarred skin of his hand, sending a trickle of blood down his arm as three crimson drops fell from the edge of his hand. They landed on the sand with a whisper and he turned his head, staring at the three splotches on the rocky sand.
Somehow it seemed... familiar. He felt as though this had been important to him before, but all he could remember was darkness; he had been falling through endless darkness for longer than he could remember, searching beyond hope for a way out. He couldn't begin to guess how long it had been since he had seen the light, and even if he could... time seemed unreal, as if he were standing outside of it. Abstractly he wondered why that was, then squinted his eyes as he peered down at the sand. It was almost like...
Quietly, he began to speak. His voice was halting and soft with disuse, but it seemed that at one time it had been beautiful. He didn't know what he was saying, or what language... what was a language? But it seemed familiar. Slowly it seemed to take on melody and he hugged his arms across his chest, singing softly to the silver-tinged waves of the sea.
The pain of his hand subsided and his voice grew in surety, finally echoing around the deserted beach with a music more beautiful than any heard since the world was young. But his voice faltered and he spoke the next word softly... 'Silmaril'. Suddenly the darkness in his mind receded and his memory came flowing back, the language he had been speaking resolving itself into words. But his song paused, and then failed all together and he knew, as for the first time, who he was.
Maglor. Macalaurë. Son of Fëanor and the last elf to walk in Arda... awoken from eternal darkness because he had another chance to fulfill the oath. Another chance for peace. His gaze was drawn again to the three crimson flecks on the sand and he stood resolutely, vowing that he would reclaim the jewel... and this time, he would prove that he was worthy.
A/N: Sigh This one isn't so great and I'm sorry. I had to rewrite it about three different times and still don't think I got it right – seems a little cliché to me :( Also, this is all I've written so far, so upcoming updates might take a bit longer.
Burns. The skin that had once been delicate and fair was mottled with white scars, all along his palm with raised white ledges along the first knuckle of each finger... and they hurt. His mind barely seemed to register the pain and he watched with childlike confusion as he curled each of the slender fingers, finally clenching them into a tight fist. He couldn't directly remember how he had gotten the scars but he could feel it in the back of his mind, just beyond perception.
He took a few steps forward and suddenly... pain... broke through the darkness in his mind. His slender hands clenched spasmodically as white fire shot through them and up his arms. The memory that had been tauntingly close before seemed to recede as the pain broke over him and his knees buckled, sending him to the ground, As if from a long way off he noticed that his fingernails had broken the scarred skin of his hand, sending a trickle of blood down his arm as three crimson drops fell from the edge of his hand. They landed on the sand with a whisper and he turned his head, staring at the three splotches on the rocky sand.
Somehow it seemed... familiar. He felt as though this had been important to him before, but all he could remember was darkness; he had been falling through endless darkness for longer than he could remember, searching beyond hope for a way out. He couldn't begin to guess how long it had been since he had seen the light, and even if he could... time seemed unreal, as if he were standing outside of it. Abstractly he wondered why that was, then squinted his eyes as he peered down at the sand. It was almost like...
Quietly, he began to speak. His voice was halting and soft with disuse, but it seemed that at one time it had been beautiful. He didn't know what he was saying, or what language... what was a language? But it seemed familiar. Slowly it seemed to take on melody and he hugged his arms across his chest, singing softly to the silver-tinged waves of the sea.
The pain of his hand subsided and his voice grew in surety, finally echoing around the deserted beach with a music more beautiful than any heard since the world was young. But his voice faltered and he spoke the next word softly... 'Silmaril'. Suddenly the darkness in his mind receded and his memory came flowing back, the language he had been speaking resolving itself into words. But his song paused, and then failed all together and he knew, as for the first time, who he was.
Maglor. Macalaurë. Son of Fëanor and the last elf to walk in Arda... awoken from eternal darkness because he had another chance to fulfill the oath. Another chance for peace. His gaze was drawn again to the three crimson flecks on the sand and he stood resolutely, vowing that he would reclaim the jewel... and this time, he would prove that he was worthy.
A/N: Sigh This one isn't so great and I'm sorry. I had to rewrite it about three different times and still don't think I got it right – seems a little cliché to me :( Also, this is all I've written so far, so upcoming updates might take a bit longer.