Short one-shot. Review! Erestor finds a purpose . . . .

Erestor gazed out over the Sea, noticing the minute details that would have otherwise escaped him. The pale moonlight was reflected in little slivers on the restless water, almost as if the great sword of Menelmacar had been shattered, its pieces tumbling down from the heavens to rest on the waves. He closed his eyes and let the soft breeze caress his face and run through his dark hair like the slender fingers of an unseen lover in the darkness. He stood ankle deep in the water, and could feel the gritty sand beneath his bare feet.

Everything seemed so distant, so remote. Even the memories which he swore would never fade from his mind seemed shrouded in a mist. The deep laughter of Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer seemed more and more like his own with each new day. The faces of the peredhil twins continued to grow dimmer. The picture in his mind of Imladris, his long home, shifted each time he tried to focus on it. The rushing sound of the Baranduin as it swept over the rocks had become a whisper in the twilight of his life.

Erestor opened his eyes and sighed. It was all part of the irrevocable past, and what was gone would never return. Imladris was now only crumbled stones in a forest, their past magic forgotten. Baranduin had been engulfed by a city, now grey and sluggish and rank with slime. Elladan and Elrohir had remained in Arda, forsaking the immortal life of their people. They were gone, the slow decay of time having taken its toll on their lively spirits far too quickly. Glorfindel had been slain long ago, his valor and strength buried in the rubble of time. No golden flower would spring from that stone to keep that name alive, not this time.

What good is a scholar in such a time? There is no one to listen to the legends of the past. There is no one to speak the long forgotten tongues. The names of the great houses mean nothing, since they have all turned to dust. The maps mean nothing, for the mighty fortresses lay in ruin. The moon and sun have never failed them, so why know their stories? The stars are all the same to them, so why bother to know the tale of their making? They are safe. Yet they do not know that one day the End will come. When Melkor is released from bondage and Feanor burns again, they will want to know. When the swords of Turambar and Cuthalion shine again together, they will want to know.

Erestor was yanked from his musings when someone bumped into him. The Elf looked up, startled. There was a young man, trying in vain to pick up all of the papers he had dropped in the water. He kept mumbling, "Sorry, so sorry, didn't see you there."

Erestor shook his head. Stupid mortals, they have a whole beach to themselves and they must come close enough to run into him. He bent down and helped the man pick up his papers anyway. The man stood up and held out his hand. "Thank you."

The Elf almost shook his head in exasperation. They were hopeless! "No problem . . . Mr. . . ."

"Tolkien."