[piosenniel]

It was almost time for the midsummer feast, Erulaitalë. The king would ascend the winding spiral road on foot to the northern summit of Meneltarma, clad in white and garlanded, followed by a great throng of the people of Númenor. They would all walk in silence, and in silence enter the great flattened and depressed area at the top of the Holy Mountain. At that time the King would break the holy silence of the place, offering praise to Eru Ilúvatar while the eagles, the Witnesses of Manwë, wheeled and hovered above the sacred gathering.

But today was not that day yet, and the elf had hiked to the top of the sacred mountain as he did often on his voyages to Andor, as he called it.

Once at the top, he stood on the rim and looked far out to sea, to the north, straining to see the ship he knew must come, and soon now, if he understood the last message from Ancalimon. Nothing yet. He sighed sofly into the silence of the mountain.

Then turning toward the western rim, he bowed to the three eagles perched on the rocks there, and descended once again to the mountain's base, making his way on horse back to Eldalondë.