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Long centuries after the turning of the Third Age of the world, the Evening Star fell from the sky.
Day though it was then, the sky was dark with black storm clouds that clashed and fought with thunderous vigour, and their battle shook the western shores of Middle-earth with quakes that had been felt only in times long gone when fallen Beleriand was cast beneath the sea. Rain fell like arrows upon the wrathful waves that rose, mountainous, and threw themselves at the cliffs above the southern beaches, and whips of lightning flashed across the sky with white fire.
The cruel winds and the pelting rain had blown Vingilot off her course. It should not have been possible, for never did she stray from her path which was far beyond the confines of the rounded world—yet for love of the world she watched over she had descended, to look in sorrow upon that which was furthest from her, and had been caught in what would be called the mightiest storm of that Age.
Her silver sails torn, her lanterns shattered by the thunder, her prow once-lovely in the shape of a swan weathered down by the strength of the currents of the wind, the fairest ship ever fashioned now knew no course but wherever the storm led her. And upon her deck, slick with rain water and charred by lightning bolts which had struck too close, the lone mariner behind her helm struggled to navigate the angry winds.
Another gust threatened to topple them over, and Eärendil braced himself against the floor of the quarterdeck, straining with the force of maintaining his hold on the handles of the wheel. Upon his brow the Silmaril shone still, untainted, like a beacon in the darkness, blinding him to what lay in front of him though the pouring rainfall.
His muscles ached and his eyes throbbed, yet relentlessly he fought the storm, for he knew that if he fell overboard he would be slain—by the impact with the waves or by drowning—and then all would be lost; his ship, his life, the jewel he carried.
The hours seemed to stretch and the weather did not calm, and steadily, despite all the efforts of Eärendil, Vingilot was pushed ever lower, towards the dark and hungry sea. And when Eärendil felt nearly overcome with exhaustion, his prayers and strength spent, he heard, over the howling wind—
A voice. A voice that cut through the thunder and the rolling clouds and the crashing waves like a bright sword in the night, a voice of haunting beauty and wielding a power so tangible that the air bent to its will, cutting a path through the storm and beckoning Eärendil to safety.
Fuelled by a desperate hope, Eärendil cast aside all caution and hastily changed course; but the wind was as relentless as he, and it shredded the last of his sails and snapped his rigging clean in half, and just as the rain began to abate lightning struck, quick as a snake, and with a great groan the main mast collapsed over the gunwale and was swallowed by the rapidly approaching waves.
The voice rose in a mesmerizing crescendo, and Eärendil shielded his eyes from the light of the Silmaril and spotted in the distance a dark beach, and upon that beach an outcrop of rock sticking out like a stage, and upon that rock a lone figure stood tall, arms outstretched as though to receive him.
The impact with the water was merciless. Vingilot, which had been tipping down bow-first, snapped back upright with enough force that the wood splintered, and Eärendil was caught unawares and slammed his head against the outer rim of the wheel hard enough that it sent his vision swimming. The handles slipped out of his hands and the wheel proceeded to spin out of control, sending the ship careening into the nearest wave.
Eärendil was thrown about like a ragdoll and managed only out of luck to grab onto the nearest handrail and not be torn from it by the rushing water, and when the ship emerged once again, leaving him gasping for air, it crashed instead against land in a spray of sand. Eärendil cried out as he slipped down the stairs and his back hit the remaining stump of the broken mast, sending a painful flare down his ribs that left him coughing out his lungs.
In the background the storm raged on, yet it appeared that the rain had stopped, and a profound sense of calm washed over him that made his aching muscles cry with relief, knowing he was at last safe.
Once the blood pounding in his ears retreated, Eärendil realised the voice he had heard was quiet, and all around him was only the frothing of the sea and the distant thunder. He attempted to stand, only to slip on the wet floorboards and crash right back down, his legs trembling and uncooperative.
His vision was filled with hallowed light that was hurting his eyes, and in a surge of childish frustration he reached up and ripped the circlet holding the Silmaril off his brow, curling his fingers around the delicate metalwork and resting his forehead upon the back of his hand for but a moment.
A noise sounded, not unlike feet landing on wood.
Eärendil looked up, through the hair obscuring his face—and then further up, until he found a pair of eyes looking back at him.
The Elf was tall and fair of face, lithe and otherworldly, and his hair fell about his shoulders in midnight curls. He was barefoot, dressed in rags of what must have once been fine clothing, but his eyes were the colour of silver and shone with inner light, brighter than the stars, more beautiful than the rays of the Sun or Moon.
In the hand of Eärendil the Silmaril shone in tandem, almost gleefully; and Eärendil thought of a voice raised in song and knew him then, and the helplessness of his situation crashed down upon him, and he was afraid.
Maglor son of Fëanor stepped towards him, but when Eärendil scrambled away from him he froze, and Eärendil froze, and they held each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity and a single breath all at once. Eärendil’s breathing was terribly loud in the silence, and his pulse terribly quick and fearful.
Then Maglor moved again, slowly, deliberately, never looking away as though he thought Eärendil would startle once more, and he approached him and held out his left hand, waiting. And Eärendil ached, too exhausted to muster anything other than weariness, and his fingers twitched around the circlet once before he held it out with trembling hands.
For the first time, Maglor’s eyes snapped to the jewel. Its light spilled undeterred, as it always did, over his pallid features, and Eärendil watched as he reached out—
With his right hand. Maglor reached out with his right hand, which was wrapped in bandages, and gently, without touching the Silmaril, pushed it aside. He then looked back to Eärendil and held out his left hand once more, insistently, and when Eärendil looked into his eyes he saw not the mindless lust of an unfulfilled oath.
He saw instead an old and familiar sadness, and the inkling of tired, uncomplicated resignation.
The circlet slipped from between his fingers and clattered to the ground, and Eärendil put his head in his hands and bent over and wept he knew not what for. For his wife, who had suffered. For himself, who had suffered. For his people and his children and their descendants, who had suffered. For all the suffering and animosity in the world, and for old and long-forgotten hurts which he realised had long healed over.
Maglor knelt by him and said nothing, but there was understanding behind the light in his eyes. He offered Eärendil a waterskin once his tears were spent, and then, once Eärendil had drunk his fill, he held out his hand.
And Eärendil took it and rose, and together they stepped off the ruined ship and onto the hither shore.