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The Whisper of the Sea

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The sea is green and blue and alive, just everything he is not, and never will be again. To him it is comfort and reassurance – a possibility; and although he is alone, Maglor knows he is not. He had known for awhile that the shallow waters, with its green eyes and crown of foam, were watching him.

A week?

A year?

A century?

Maglor cannot tell, does not care. The sense of time is lost to him. His clothes, long bleached from the unyielding sun above, are mere rags that somehow keep clinging to his boney skin, hardly sufficient to warm or to protect him. But then, how should they protect him from himself?

On bare feet, he takes a step forward. Then another one, carefully placed.

It is the sea he yearns for, the beauty of the moment when the surf pools around his ankles, sometimes gentle like a lover’s caress, sometimes ferocious and demanding. He wants to give in to the silent invitation, to take a step further, yielding to the gurgling whisper that keeps him awake at night. Sometimes, he wishes the waves would wrap their arms around him, embrace him and pull him under, just as the hot liquid stone had kissed his brother’s skin.

An image etched into his mind; into his very being and perhaps, his fate should just be the same?

The waves are calling to him like music, and day after day they lure him out of his hide. Sometimes, on better days, he would join the song of the water, so that misery for at least a moment disappeared.  

But then, there was no deity of fire in the lands he doesn’t quite remember now.

“I know thou art watching,” says Maglor, surprised by his own words, sounding like a raven’s croak.  More surprised by the excitement that suddenly flares through him. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in – an eternity.

The water remains deadly still and Maglor is tempted to throw a pebble across the calm surface just as he had done as a child.

The sea is his possibility.

The Whisperer in the night.

It is everything.

And at the same time naught, he tries to convince himself.

Yet the pebble is still in his hand as the waters sneak their arms around his hips. Blue and green, and alive.