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Disclaimer: All of Middle-earth and all the Elves belong to Tolkien, no profit being made, etc.
Summary: Daeron and Maglor are called by a song more ancient even than them.
Word count: 200
Notes: Watched Planet Earth. Then decided to see if I could whip out a quick drabble. At 158 words I decided to go up rather than down.
The wind played amongst the waves, churning them into crashing peaks. Yet in spite of this the water was warm, touched by the setting sun as it crept over the beach. The two Elves stood in the sand, froth breaking on their bare ankles. They had heard the song, and they came to answer it.
Their voices lifted over the water, clear and pure.
The reply came. Deep, haunting. Where the seabed dropped away to deeper water, a grey-white fin could be glimpsed.
The whales sang, telling their stories, memories passed from mother to calf over the ages. Their beautiful, eerie voices echoed through the waters and carried to the senses of the Elven minstrels.
Daeron and Maglor, hands clasped, shared their ancient memories too. Sad memories, but the harsh sting was softening with time, the edge dulled as new, brighter hopes took their place.
A pale fountain blew from the sea, tinted golden as the sun dipped into the Western Ocean. The whalesong began to fade. Memories were precious, but they had calves to feed, and the present called to them once more.
The whales passed on, but far away, a faint solitary light glinted in the sea.