#i am incapable of painting coastal landscapes without putting maglor in them

[leucisticpuffin]

This beach belongs to a seal colony; wary of disturbing them, Maglor climbs the rugged cliffs of the headland. Slim chance of finding a good place to settle down for the night here - the ground is rocky and the wind punishing, strong enough to steal the voice even of the Noldor's greatest singer.

He won't sleep, anyway. The pain in his burnt hand lingers, though the wound itself closed up some time ago. (He still keeps it bandaged, so he does not have to look at the mark the Silmaril left behind.) Tonight it flares bright as the myriad stars over the headland. The stars are almost beautiful enough to make up for Maglor's sleeplessness. Perhaps this is why his brother so often took the night watch, in long-ago Himring.

The wind is just as cold.

More of Maglor's Second Age wanderings. Based on a photograph of Flamborough Head in Yorkshire.