Two weeks later
Erestor reached the shores of the Sea. Soon he found the small rowboat left for him by the Falathrim, and headed towards Himling. The last remnant of sunken Beleriand, now an island, lay just over the horizon.
When he reached the shore, he felt utterly unmoored. The land no longer bore any resemblance to the Hill on which he'd once dwelt. The top of Himring had been barren, but away from the beach, the land was now heavily wooded.
He knew that he needed merely to wait - his presence would not go unnoticed here, for most Elves considered the island accursed and avoided it. Even Cirdan's own mariners sailed miles around rather than pass it by. So, he pulled the boat ashore, placed his sword in it, walked a hundred yards down the beach, and sat down.
The island was full of dark memory; here the hosts of his lords had assembled before the Nirnaeth, and gone forth with high hopes. Few ever returned, and his son and many of his friends had been among the fallen.
But his thoughts were disturbed by the point of a sword, between his shoulder blades, at the exact gap in his spine to guarantee a swift and painless death. He knew to keep perfectly still.
"Are you armed?", asked the familiar voice.
"I hold no weapon that could harm you, Uncle."
The sword drew back instantly. Its bearer leapt clean over him, spinning in the air, ready to strike. Then recognition finally flashed, and Erestor found himself pulled off the ground in a fierce embrace.
"Erestor! Is it really you?"
"Yes. Kindly put me down, will you?"
Maglor set the Counsellor of Imladris down on his feet, but still held him at arm's length, seemingly trying to make sure his eyes did not trick him. He finally spoke. "Hithriel?"
"She is well. She has missed you. As have I! Why have you stayed away so long? Why did you abandon us?"
Maglor sat roughly down on the sand, bereft of the grace he'd shown but a moment earlier. "Need you ask?" The son of Feanor looked down at the sand, unwilling to face his heart-nephew.
Erestor, too, sat. "We can not undo anything, Uncle. Nothing is so futile as wishing the past is other than it is."
Maglor looked up. "I need not ask why you are here. Sauron moves."
"Yes. And we are called to fight him. All of us. My hatred of Morgoth and his servants has not lessened over the years."
The unspoken challenge hung heavy in the salty air. A few waves broke.
Maglor started suddenly. "Nor mine! Think you..." - but his voice trailed off, and he seemed to diminish again. "I am less than I was, Erestor. Why have you come?"
"We need you, Kanafinwe Macalaure Feanorion! You help no-one by sitting here in exile. We need you."
"Kanafinwe Macalaure Feanorion.." the older Elf repeated, as if he'd forgotten his own name. He hesitated for a long while, then rose.
"I will do what I can."
Erestor stood and embraced the elder. "Let us come away from this place - it is not what it was. Is your sword still sharp?"
Maglor looked at him quizzically. "Of course it's sharp. Do we now forge swords that need to be sharpened more than once?"
Erestor frowned. "I did not know whether you still had your old one. You have missed much. When you meet the others, you'll find you're not the only one who's diminished."
When they reached the boat, Maglor startled again. "Is that Atarinke's sword?"
"Yes, Uncle. I retrieved it when we withdrew from Doriath. But let us look forward, not back."
The son of Feanor nodded. "Indeed. I will leave my names on this island. If anyone is to call me anything, I prefer 'Kano'."
Erestor nodded and began rowing back to the mainland. Little was said in the boat. For all their shared past, both now dwelled upon the doom that lay ahead.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.