Upon these shores by Lyra

Prologue

Written for the B2MeM '09 prompt, If your character had a chance to start anew and with a clean slate, what would he or she do with such a chance? Write a story, poem or create an artwork where this is offered to them or how they execute such a chance.

The last two clasps had been bent by a sword-blow: bent, but not broken. It took him a long time to force them open. They were hard to reach, situated just beneath his shoulder-blades. Some coward tried to stab me in the back, he realised with a kind of numb astonishment. Tried - but failed. The armour had done its work again. He found himself vaguely wondering whether it would have been better if the coward had succeeded. Better, perhaps, if someone had succeeded in killing him long ago. He had certainly expected it to happen long ago. They all had. Sometimes, gathered around their campfire, attempting to reassure each other – see, we are not afraid, we can talk about it openly – or perhaps to prove something to whoever might listen – see, we are not that arrogant, we have not forgotten that we are vulnerable – they had talked about who among them was most likely to be the next to fall.
"Macalaurë," Curufinwë had always said after some more or less friendly bantering. "No offense, Brother, but you’re not much of a fighter." And the others had, uneasily (for of course they were afraid, and of course they loved him), agreed. And it was true. Compared to them, he had never been a good fighter. Too defensive, too anxious to take necessary risks, too slow. He could not dance with a sword like Tyelkormo did, nor did he have Nelyo's deadly precision.
He had nodded, with a resigned grimace, facing the facts. Of course he’d be the next to die.

Except that he had lived, again and again and again; and here he was alone, and all of them had gone before him. It was almost a joke, in a bitter, twisted way.
"Perhaps they needed a minstrel for their funeral dirge," he said to the waves that lapped at his feet. The tide had risen again, and he was shin-deep in water. It had long since begun to seep through the seams of his boots, despite all the wax and tar expended on waterproofing them. The salt was doubtlessly ruining the leather. He could not bring himself to care.
"Or perhaps it’s that the world was created by music, so now it looks after the musicians." He smiled, mirthlessly, to himself.
The last clasp sprang open suddenly, cutting his burned hand. He noticed it distantly as if watching a stranger's pain. His breastplate dropped into the shallow water, joining the braces and shoulder pieces he had dropped there earlier and the sword he had driven deep into the sand. Except for one vambrace, it was all the same armour that he had worn an age ago when they had set off on their journey, full of rage and pride and foolish excitement. Curufinwë had renewed the gilt layer at some point, when they’d still had the time and the gold for such follies, and the straps and clasps had been replaced several times over. But the actual armour was still the same that he had worn when he had sworn the Oath. He felt strangely wistful at leaving it behind at the mercy of the waves, or of scavengers. It was absurd that, after all the day had held, he had any regret to waste on a heap of steel and leather and gold, but he had worn it so often and so long that it felt like a part of him.
“That is why I'm getting rid of it,” he told the waves. “It belongs to Cánafinwë who swore the Oath, and we’re leaving him behind.” The waves rolled on, unimpressed.

His chainmail hauberk, his leather jerkin joined the armour and the sword. His tunic, too, bore the badge of his house – lovingly stitched on by his wife, who might yet be alive, maybe even searching for him – but he figured he could always remove the embroidery. He would need at least some clothing. He took his dagger in hand, considered throwing it away, and then kept it. It was a working knife, not a killing knife, and the more helpless he made himself, the more he would have to seek the company of other people. He did not want that; not for a while, not until this day was history, not until the world was changed yet more. He could not undo what had befallen. Even if he could, he would not have known where to begin. It was more than was possible in a lifetime - even if his life should last as long as the world. That failing, he could only try to erase that part of him that had been involved in these grim events. Perhaps, if he wandered far enough and spoke and thought little enough, he might be able to forget who he was and what had happened. He doubted it, but he could hope.

He sheathed the dagger again. He needed it for now, and later perhaps he could exchange it for a lesser smith’s work. Next he reached up for the small, star-shaped pendant he still wore on a chain about his neck, fumbling with another clasp, this one unbent but hard to clasp with fingers numbed by burns and icy water. It opened eventually. The pendant fell into his hand. He stared down at it, hard, as if willing it to dissolve. It refused to comply. He swung his arm; he let it sink again. The small star was still in his hand.
"Silly," he said aloud. "Childish nostalgia." He swung again. This time the pendant flew, its gold glittering in the few beams of the setting sun that managed to creep through the smoke of the battle. Then it was gone.
The waves rolled on.

"That’s it," he told the sea. "Farewell to Cánafinwë Macalaurë, these days called Maglor, second son of Fëanor. I am he no more. May he rest, and his Oath, and follow me no more." The tide came in stronger now, strong enough for the current to take the smaller parts of his armour with it. The suit still lay there. Covered with water, the dents and scratches were invisible in the twilight, the revealed steel indistinguishable from the remains of the gilt layer. It looked almost as new. It looked as though one should pick it up, and reassume one’s responsibility.

The nameless elf shook his head. He bent down – not far now; the water had reached his thighs – to wash his hands and face. Then, slowly, not looking back, he waded out of the sea to where his harp was waiting.