A frisson went through the silver sands, and the waves that washed upon the pearl strewn strands seemed restless. Then like some Leviathan of the depths, slowly, ever so slowly, the isle of Tol Eressea started to move.
Gilfanon, Lord of the House of Ingwe and Captain of the Faring Forth stood atop a spike of rock. The setting sun was a blaze of glory behind the spires of the mountains of Aman, but his back was turned to it. His eyes looked ever into the darkening horizon before him, through the high airs of Ilmen that flesh unaided cannot endure. Straight his sight went, even as the waters of the Bent Seas curved below them, to the rocky shores and frothing seas of the mortal lands where so many of the Elder Kindred had fought and bled and laughed and loved.
Meril i Turinqui rode in haste across the withered waste of rocky outcrops and scree-covered slopes. Her Elven steed never lost his footing, the colorless scrubs flaming to green in the wake of the thudding hooves.
As she rode into the meagre settlements dotting the edge of the Black Forests, men and women shut their doors, put cold iron horse-shoes before their doors. Geese yammered and livestock ran amok. This was no meek wood-elf but one of the Firstborn coming down in a mad speed. She kept the silver fires of her eyes hidden however, and mortals but thought of a loud passing wind whistling through the copses and attrributed it to spirits of the wild and old forgotten things of yore.
She had heard in her mind the call of the Starlord. And felt within her the impending arrival of the Faring Forth and Gilfanon, her kinsman in an almost-forgotten childhood in the Uttermost West. So she woke from her icy slumber, and washing the sleep of Ages away in a pool of starlit tears she arrayed herself in arms that bore the craftsmanship of Celebrimbor himself that the Lady of the Golden Wood had set aside for such a young warrior back in the Third Age before the lords of the Eldar had left Middle-earth.
The words of the Starlord Elentyaro still hummed and hissed across the vast distances. Young one, I have gone on a voyage to the East to meet the last of my Order and also to retrieve if I may the Flammifer – a horn of silver that can be sounded so that what remains of the Elder Kindred in mortal lands can rouse themselves to seek out the standard of GIlfanon. Else it is impossible to round up every Elf in every wood. Ride hard Lady Meril, to the ruins of Mithlond where Goldberry awaits with the others. The Swordhand I met is also with them.
Meril came at length from where she could smell the salt of the Sea and the faint cry of circling gulls.
And then she saw the crude cross. With yet another gruesome load.
There was a whisper of steel.