A precious few sights, stores and things upon Arda had the uncanny gift of letting one’s thoughts scatter so ceaselessly as the rushing encore of the sea, battering itself stubbornly upon the rocks. For Indralas, it was an exchange, a swapping of roles. Where the water yearned to submerge all land, wood, rock and stone beneath it – after all, the sea was a fierce master never allowing himself to be submitted or forced to yield – Indralas sought to understand it. He was no conqueror, and he had no might to force the hand of understanding. It must come by itself, as natural and gradually as a pit in the earth being made a pond by rain. At the crux between water and land, he sought understanding, hoping that it may be bestowed upon him.
Replaying the events in his mind now came easily, for he knew not how many hours were spent by the seashores. His gaze, enchanted by the sea from where he stood, used the surface as a canvas – allowing his mind full freedom. While his thoughts were not wrought in sorrow - despite the faint melancholy any elf by right should feel given the context - they were not deeply entrenched within him.
A picture conjured itself: his mother, standing in a simple, dusty robe made only for travel – who would garb themselves in such a bleak manner, if not for the practicality it offered? He laughed, and in the image he had conceived, his mother laughed too - a living response to his afterthought. Her hair, tied back in an orderly fashion - cementing her rigid adherence to practicality - suddenly flowed free, carried by the breeze of seawind.
At her side stood her husband, his father. His robes were a stark contrast to his mothers: vibrant in their hue, beautifully woven with textures that danced in concert before any eyes that laid their gaze upon them! He smiled too, albeit more softly.
The conjured image intensified, and no longer were his parents looking at him. Now he was merely an observant, and a version of himself stood next to his parents. Their journey was in progress: darkness clouded the background, similar to the black dots that played below your iris if you hold your eyes tightly shut. Yet no sorrow clouded them, for their weariness of the hithershores were borne out of contentment, not longing to see more of it - nor pity for the slow desecration and sullying of the earth by the Enemy. Their gazes were sated; they had laid their gaze upon what they saw – their son, Indralas, himself – the darkened trees that once had a brighter color, the mountains to that stoically barred the passage westwards, and lastly the creeping darkness that came from the east.
Indralas bore no ill thought towards his parents, for long had they dwelt upon the hithershores, and now the yearning in their soul beckoned them back from whence they had once come. No desire of such magnitude could be quelled, and to attempt so would only delay what could not be denied. It was a compulsive sensation, and though he bade his time on Arda willingly, he comprehended – to the best of his ability – what had overcome his doting parents.
To prove this end, he traveled with them, for he wished to extent his fondest, most memorable farewells.
As the last thought struck him at its own volition, the surface of the water rippled, shattering the fragile image. His gaze bent upwards, and while his eyes were not keen by the reckoning of venerable elves, they still caught the glimpse of sails protruding from the horizon; so faint it was barely a glimmer. There his parents sailed.
With a bright smile, he wondered wistfully his parents looked towards the hithershores, at him, or if they were looking with eager eyes towards Aman.
Dismissing the import of such fickle notions, Indralas turned sharply on his heel, breathed the salt in the air, tasted it on his tongue – and with that, returned to his business.
