Lay the Heart Bare, Leaf by Leaf by IdleLeaves

Winter Sea

Maglor does not run from the sight of a white ship, newly-anchored in the harbour.

For an Instadrabbling prompt of "The cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea."

Maglor does not run from the sight of a white ship, newly-anchored in the harbour. Instead, he turns - calm on the surface, heart in his throat - and retreats into the dawn-mist with swift, controlled steps across the shore, hands curled into fists to keep them from shaking.

He walks until the curve of the shore folds in on itself - until smoke-grey rock gives way to rippling sand. Then, he wades into the winter sea, raises his eyes to stars he cannot see, and screams. A frigid rush of wind rips the words from his mouth and carries them off, unheard.

Maglor's strength falters; he sinks to his knees in the icy surf. He hasn't cried in years, yet there are tears on his face, clinging to his eyelashes and sliding over his cheeks. He breaks into a sweat as pain abruptly kindles in his palm; his hand aches, and he plunges it into the water, holding it there until it numbs and he can rest it, again, in his lap.

Soft footfalls disturb the sand behind him. Maglor knows, without even casting a glance over his shoulder, that it is Finrod who has found him. He kneels beside Maglor with a gasp, the shallow remnant of a cold wave splashing against him.

Finrod does not speak, but takes Maglor's hand, holding it palm-up in his own. His fingers trace ancient injury - not the ever-present burn, but the musician's calluses that have never healed, even if Maglor can no longer remember when he last held a harp.

Maglor's tears begin anew; Finrod releases his hand, then, and gathers Maglor into the familiar warmth of his arms, steady and silent, until Maglor is able to withdraw, to straighten his back and wipe his eyes.

"Come home," Finrod says, voice gentler than Maglor deserves.

"I cannot," Maglor chokes out, and bows his head.