Carl lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the Elven music. There was no denying that it was beautiful, but he longed for the sounds of the woods around the Shire. The wind soughing in the fir boughs, the chirp of birds and chatter of squirrels as they called out challenges to one another, the sound of water in a stream rolling the pebbles and rushing over boulders - these were his harmonies, his songs.
He reached out and turned up the small lamp in his room. Getting up, he packed up all his belongings and rolled up his bedroll. Securing his bow and quiver to his pack, he shouldered it and went out under the stars. They shone bright and clear on Rivendell. The Wain pointed northward, and to its left lay the way to the Shire.
He sat down, back against a winter bare tree, and pulled his cloak about him. All night he sat smoking his pipe and following the trail of stars home.
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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