Miniscule droplets of water sprayed onto the Noldo's face as he stood on the surface of a large rock at shore's edge. His tired eyes stared into the far horizon, where ocean and sky met. The last faint glow of Vása could still be seen, and the dark clouds above the remaining light churned, preparing to send rain onto Arda.

Makalaurë's windblown hair was in tangles, his faded blue tunic bearing tears on the edges. Looking down at his worn boots, he grimaced at the holes caused by endless walking. His fingers ached to play the strings on his harp; he misplaced his beloved instrument in Beleriand as he went about his business to fulfill his family's accursed oath. The only instrument he had left to use was his voice, and even singing could prove difficult in Makalaurë's situation. After many days and nights that repeated the same events, he occasionally felt as if he had lost his voice, or his throat became sore as he concentrated solely on the misfortunes that befell Middle-earth because of his family.

How many times had the sun gone down since he'd tossed the Silmaril into the depths of Belegaer's waters? How many lonely years had gone by? Macalaurë could not tell if it had been fifty, or perhaps sixty; he had lost track of the count many moons ago. The burn of the Silmaril-- a bitter reminder of the oath he'd been forced into-- had still kept its mark on his right palm.

We are all forever scarred-- even in death. He and his brothers, no matter how much regret they felt, would carry their past deeds with them for all time. He wondered if his father, after many years of pondering, had finally discovered that what he did was wrong.

The winds swirled around Makalaurë's shivering form. Oh, how he wished to melt into his mother's loving embrace once again! Rain began to sprinkle onto his cloak and the ocean surface. The forlorn Elf grit his teeth as he raised his scarred palm to the level of his eyes. His fingers curled into a fist as the rain poured down on him, failing to wash the burn away, into the ocean where it would follow the Silmaril's hidden destination.

He watched the lapping waves, and could not help but be reminded of the Teleri at Alqualondë. Their blood had been spilled and mixed with the salty ocean they so loved. It was at the first kinslaying when he slew a young Telerin child in the climax of his rage. Her face was stricken with pitiful shock as he viciously impaled her stomach with his sword, thrusting her body into the sea without a second thought.

His eyes filled with tears and his lips parted to sing in his native Quenyan tongue, voice only a whisper such as foam upon the settling waves, yet still beautiful to the ears.

"My fate consumes me, oh so slowly
My pain, it lingers like an incurable sickness
But I shall embrace it with a willing heart
For I am Ocean's Son, so long as I walk alone." 

His eyelids closed as the tears slipped down his cheeks. Makalaurë allowed himself to absorb the rain as the drops trickled down his face, along with his own tears. The sun had dropped below the horizon. Perhaps... he thought, Lord Ulmo is unleashing his wrath upon me, and is punishing me with what I deserve.        

And the rain continued to soak the still figure, refusing to cease its beatings upon the former kinslayer.