Lindon

Whitebird

Skytraveller, Skytraveller,
Where hither dost thou go?
Stand tall and spread thy wings,
Scatter the seeds of growth thou shallt sow,

Quickwing, Quickwing,
Raise thy eyes to the night,
Follow the Mariner's guidance,
Let the air cleanse you as you take flight,

Whitebird, Whitebird,
With thy everlasting laugh,
Ascend in a storm of feathers,
Find the whole in the path you tread half,

"Again!", the elf shouted at the mortal pointing at his blade, which was lying down on the ground. "What kind of swordsman loses his sword so easily. Pick it up, come on!"

She walked beneath whispering leaves as moonbeams fell on the grass and glittered on her hair. Soft breezes from the Sea were fluttering and whirling between the trees, like a silenced laughter. She took a step forward and gazed into the distance from under a lower branch.

And the seamen saw an Elf with golden manes, reaching down to the end of his spine. His voice was fair and virtuous, pure and unstained. 

Again, Eliriael took up her quill, dipped it into the ink, and let her hand hover over the parchment. The tip of the quill stood upon the paper, the ink pooling together for a moment before she began writing. The quill etched itself into the parchment, leaving its imprint and a dark liquid trail behind.

My dearest Miruial,

Dearest Eliriael,

Have you arrived yet in Imladris safely? It has been many weeks now since you departed, promising to write of your arrival once you had reached Lord Elrond’s House.

The sea is wild today, roaring waringly at high tide, indomitable, immense and beautiful… oh, how I missed it… there were times especially during long watches on our recent journey to the east when I found myself dreaming of Belegaer, contemplating its beauty and greatness unsurpassable… now I feel more like being caught up in a dream but my mind reminds me gently that I can come tomorrow again to take delight in its magnificence… it is good to be home again.