[piosenniel]

The closer each footstep fell toward the West, the greater her longing became. In this once fair land where now the shadow reached out its greedy fingers she felt more a stranger with every passing league. Where once the light of the Blesséd Lands shone clearly, now all was changing, taking on hues of greys and blacks and she was feeling left behind . . . faded . . .

Erkaliel stayed awake most nights. There is still a beauty in the stars she thought, and in their patterns. She had laid down beneath them, her eyes open to their song, their swirling movements across the night sky swimming in her eyes. It refreshed her for the long days of trekking across the sparsely treed, rolling plain.

No more troubles had plagued them since they left the mountains. Light-footed, the Elves had made good time down the River Sirannon and had just passed the ancient city of Ost-in-Edhil. A short way west of it was a large marshy area, and she looked with hope toward it, shading her eyes with her hand to scan the vast wetlands. From the wetlands they would turn south to Tharbad, the now deserted city where the North-South road crossed the River Mitheithel and went up into the Hobbit lands.

‘Look, Tanroth! Look, Erfalas! Just there among the reeds!’ The two Elves had come up beside her. ‘Nîn-in-Eilph . . . Swanfleet!’ she cried. They looked where her fingers pointed, and there in the middle of the great marsh were two, gleaming white, swans. As if they had heard the Elves approach, the birds took wing, trumpeting a greeting, or so it seemed, before landing further away from the group of travelers.

‘These still are beautiful,’ she murmured, watching them. ‘His hand has not touched them.’ Erkaliel turned to her two companions, a smile on her face. ‘Such a sight! It still gives hope, does it not?’