Maglor

The waves whispered ceaselessly against the stones, carrying with them a sorrow older than mortal memory. Along the grey shore walked a tall, solitary figure, his dark hair unbound and tangled by the salt wind. In his hands rested a harp, weathered as he, its strings catching the dying light of the sun as though they were threads of gold. Maglor’s song rose low and mournful, mingling with the voice of the sea. It was no triumph, no praise of victory, but a lament woven of grief, longing, and the weight of endless years. The notes trembled with both beauty and despair, as though the Sea itself listened and mourned with him. He paused, gaze drifting out across the vast expanse of water, where the horizon blurred in twilight. The hand upon his harp lingered on a final chord, letting it fade into silence. For a moment he stood utterly still, as if carved from the same stone as the cliff behind him. Then, quietly, his voice broke the stillness. “Ever does the Sea take what we cannot keep.”
He lowered his harp, turning slightly—as if sensing he were no longer alone upon the shore.