Imladris

"Hmmmmmm..." Daerundros trailed off in thought as she examined the empty goblet in her hand, creasing her brows, "A good memory, no doubt." She laughed grimly and carelessly tossed the goblet into an overstuffed sack filled with objects collected over the years.

For so long, the elves of Middle-earth have sought the Ships shaped like swans and sailed over the Sea;  for Gwael, that's always been the way. Stories of mighty hosts that set fear in the hearts of their  foes are naught but stories, anymore, fading like a flower. She's read of the follies of the First Age, of the splendours of the Second Age, of the threats of the Third Age. She's heard of the fights and the flights, of those who lived and loved, of those who dreamed and died.

In a few days I shall be once more leaving Imladris. What used to be a solemn ceremon with great sorrow of heart to leave such a blessed place, is now one I feel I look forward to. It is a strange feeling... Some time I have now spent here, finding consolement in the many books of Lord Elrond's library. Yet, it is not longer the same. The books does not give me the comfort they used to. Perhaps it is my worries for my beloved, whom travels beyond my reach. Perhaps it is the terrible feeling of pain of Hiril Rildheldiel's broken promise to me... I am now at a crossroads.

-         Good day my Lady, I hope to speak to you again soon.

-         Speak to me? Speak of the sorrow and pain? You hope for this?

-         Not all from that age was darkness and despair. There was hope.

-         Hope is at the hands of the Hammers now, few in number yet many at heart.