The words were written down in a spidery handwriting, all curves and steps and turns. The writing itself, however, was far from frivolous. It seemed...cold. The paper seemed cold. How quite odd.
It did not stay cold for long, no, as it was thrown into the fiery heath. And yet..a fragment of it survived.
Words.
Some say that words are nothing but the reflection of an image, the futile casting of a lightened thought, the deceived measuring of a mind's inkling.
Some say that words are just the messengers of the voice.
They are wrong.
Words. The very essence, fabric, of the world is a word.
Words are pale shadows of forgotten names.
Words can light bonfires in the minds of men. Words can take tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are nine words that enter the mind and break the spirit of the strongest of men.
Words.
In the end of the battles of this age, when they record the legends, and the shadows, and the stories: they shall see numbers. They shall see soldiers. They shall see wars. They shall not see the words of the souls of the ones who perished. They shall not see the kindness in the hearts of men. They shall not see the determination of the dwarves, nor the futile nobility of the hobbits. They will not record us, the fading Quendi, for they shall not want to believe.
Words.
And those words shall be forgotten.
But they shall not end.
Words.
In the end, the strongest of words can create the first light. The ephemeral light of the loyal, and the ever-prevailing good...
And yet...
Light is not the quickest thing in the world. No.
Darkness is always there first. Waiting.
