Ashen sky, winter-bleached. Pale, pebbled beach, leaden sea. In all the world no contrast, only shading. Ship with pastel sails, stark against the sky, water silvered by the light of the setting sun. Sailing, stretching for the open sea, crossing an ocean bent by angry demi-gods. Figures at the railing looking back, small and large, young and old and deathless.

Love, standing at the railing, looking back. Leaving home, leaving love, journeying forward to life unending.

Watching. Standing on the stone pier, ancient even as the Eldar measure time, that has marked the turning of two Ages. More ancient still is this elf who has lived twice, watched three Ages pass, known the Undying Lands by the light of the Trees. Watching. Eyes straining against palely setting sun, locking in his heart each moment as love journeys westward, braving the bent seas, going ahead, leaving home.

Turning finally, when the ship is less than a smear on the horizon, no longer to be perceived even by the eyes of the Firstborn. Mounting the white horse, colourless as the sky, pale as the sea and, turning South even as love turns West, riding to Gondor, riding to a life pale and faded, in a world holding no joy, to await the ending of a reign bought in blood and glory and the setting of the Evening Star, clear and pure.

And finally sailing, for there will be another ship, the last of its kind, white-sailed, built of palest wood. It will carry those who lingered for love or fear or unreadiness on the Hither Shore into the West, over seas that fall away beneath it. And they will bear with them the last memories made in the land of exile, the land of bright, lofty, desperate adventure, of joys and sorrows higher than the stars, deeper than the deep places of the ocean.

And one will stand at the railing, golden hair streaming like a banner, and watch and wait for the passage into calm seas, wait for the first sight of a jetty that was old when this elf was young. Watching, eyes straining, for one sight alone – sable hair, kitten-soft, shot through with russet and amber, stirring in the faint breeze from the sea. Colour, warmth and joy returning. Love waiting.

And the fame and song of their sojourn will grow dim and fade, lost to memory in the land of its making, but on the far shore, under bright stars, in the land where no terror walks, it will be remembered.

~*~*~*~*~

Finish

~*~*~*~*~