[Imladris]

I could feel the warm sunshine bathe my face with her gentle rays. A bird chittered quietly and I could dimly hear the screech of an old pump and the water splash within. I breathed deeply, refreshed from my night sleep. The conversation with Nedieth, though sweet, had been a trifle short, as we were both weary with our travel. She had told me of the forest from which she hailed (the strange elvish name has escaped me) and I, in turn, told her of Minas Tirith. My mind respun the evening: Elentari, Soronume, Elentari's song. It had been an enchanting melody, heavy with mournful tears, yet an undercurrent of triumph.

Rising slowly to my feet, I walked softly across the room, my balance slightly wavoring, and found my lyre. I could feel the dust upon the strings, and I reproached myself for not cleaning it more often. I nestled the harp against my shoulder, revelling in the feel of the wood. It had been so long since I had done this, since I had actually held it properly.

My fingers brushed the strings, and a jangling tinkled mockingly from them: I had lost my touch. It was not out of tune for my cousin in Bree had tuned it for me. My fingers found a string (hopefully it was the note C) and I struck it. It rang out, sharp and harsh and it was loud, as well. Not soft and gently as it was of yore. No matter. It would do so once again. I struck again and listened intently: is was A. I crawled down the ladder of strings and finally reached C. Then I stopped.

I never could read music: the stems and blobs of notes muddled me until I was as addle-brained as any hobbit. I had always played by ear and, if I may be so bold as to say it, I do -- did -- that very well. Setting my hands in position, tried to pluck out the tune. My fingers fumbled for the strings, or fell off them entirely. The notes merged together, forming a myriad of discord. Tears sprang to my eyes and my hands dropped to my sides. Of course I could not play again: it was foolish to have even tried.