THE SEA RETURNING
Éomer in his twilight years.

The years flow by like wind on the long hills of Edoras, dreaming in the grass and mounds, slipping quick and fast beneath the doors of my house. Here still sits the King in his Golden Hall.

Where does the wind go, Elfwine, my son? It does not falter, like a horse let fly upon the loose-grassed meadows. Like a skein of geese in the reeling sky. It goes where it must: the mighty River that bears south, spending in the grey and stormy Sea.

Ah, the Sea. Even on the calmly steps of Meduseld I remember it well: time and time beholding its full arms and running waves. By the Sea the morning is pale and blue, full of the songs of gulls. Such is its call, that unlocks a flood of wild longing. So once did Legolas speak. He is Elven-kind, what the Sea is to them no mortal can tell. Yet is its call also not in your veins?

It comes not to me. To me the Sea is like a dream.

But here a sea of autumn clings to the house of my body. How the time has grown long, how the long years are parting. For I am old -- glad but old. There is to be no more riding in the bright Rohan morning. No more sweet summers in the Eastfold, where the horse-road parts its tall stalks under grey hooves. So be it! All shall fade. The flowers of the forest have closed their faces, and the quick Snowbourn is waning. The season is late; the wind is gleaning the sun's fallow flames.

Rohan beloved! Long live your swift and flowing airs, long live the bright herds and their riders!

Elfwine, my son, I shall go soon to that place where all men must go; this is the winter of all my years, and it shall pierce me like a spear. Lay my body beside the old kings and take from my head the crown, and drink then the sweet mead and unsheathe your bright sword. Go forth, son of Eorl! Morning is upon you as the sun sinks on me; long be your days!

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

A SPELL OF MUSIC
Voronwë tarries in Nan-tathren, the Land of Willow-meads.

Heady are the waters of Sirion, and quick. From the frozen crosses we have followed it down, under the northern sky. In the winter the fens of Aelin-Uial are icy and trackless, and though our haste was great we would not stray from the river.

But to see Falls of Sirion! What sight and sound, like the thunders of a great unceasing storm, its sprays glittering in the cold sun, shrouded in mist.

And beyond the Falls, most strange are these lands, these vales and hills, richer than the bare mountains of Nevrast.  Spring is come to us. Beasts and birds awake where the Narog joins Sirion and the waters slow. One by one my companions have gone before me yet I am loath to leave. The haste in my heart falters.

Nan-tathren of the bright streams, Nan-tathren of the thousand willows. Spring is come to your glades. I walk in stalks of song, and dream of the unmarred Arda that was. When spring was an everlasting dew on the arms of Yavanna and winter a ghost not yet thought of. Nan-tathren of the bright streams, Nan-tathren of the thousand willows. In the winding tresses of willow the music is a woven flood, innumerable and boundless. Especially in the starlight when I sit in the arms of grasses glistening.

Willow! In your green embrace I am a drop of opalized amber, caressed by your moonlit arms. In your kisses the cold has gone out, and only the exalting spring remains, older than winter, older than summer. Yavanna, Yavanna! Winter has come and gone. Your creatures shake themselves out of sleep. The willow leaves are harp strings in your hallowed hands.

I lie here in a lea of grass, and the Sea is a dream suddenly vanished -- as if I had been asleep in all the years of my life, walking in a waking dream. What of the Sea? A pale longing bereft of desire. Let me stay awhile, walking among the meadows, abiding in the spell of music. And after I have gone, let me walk here still, among the kissed grass and dreaming willow while the Sun yet last.

THE FADING CROWN
Galadriel takes council with her thoughts and receives Aragorn, who seeks refuge at Lórien's borders.

Lórien! Arrayed we are again in the favors of spring, your leaves long and green, your golden flowers trembling. O the elanors of May gathering on Cerin Amroth like pearls on the summer-strand. O the jeweled firmaments of Varda glittering between the waking trees. It is as if winter never was.

The praise of spring, sweeter than honey, flows freely from Elven-harps into the swift River. But no spring can rival the lost colours of Doriath, while the nightingales warbled and Tinúviel yet lived. Beyond the lees of your woods the darkness is gathering, but beneath the malinornë the Elves are singing. At your knee a thousand runnels gather in silvery pools, reflecting your splendid wreath, but on the turf of Túna the azured harebells do not fall into frost and the music does not cease.

My powers fade as the years fall through my memory like leaves. Alas! for the bright boughs of Lórien. Alas! for the niphredil, that grew once in the woods of Neldoreth. They shall pass, like stone under water, like water into the Sea. Each winter stretches longer and each spring brings no healing. Joy and sorrow have twined. My thought are turned ever West, but all the Sea is cast in shadow, and all the light is hid. Ossë wields his wrath. Who shall convey over the wild waves to the lost West my pleas of pardon? None who now remain.

Now a shadow is again walking, and in my heart I fear the worst. The Wise are ever watchful but we are dwindled, our former host reduced to companies of scouts and fencers who can but keep evil from our borders. What hope shall come to we who dwell in the forgotten East? Men have fallen into darkness and ignominy, and their kingdoms are in disarray. Brethren we were once in the Elder Days: like two rivers flowing from a fork, running parallel past, peering out of thickening mist on each other's banks, yet spending at last in separate seas; though drawn we were from that common water we shall never be gathered again.

Yet in the shadowy voices of the Sea I still hear the songs of old. Eru! how shall we drink the slow draught of sorrow that passes to us age after age? Shall we gather the Dúnedain from their scattered lands, and renew the ragged folk of that line with even the light of our own children?

For now, tried and weary he is come to the halls of my house, seeking refuge and comfort, knowing not what treasures may lie here. I have foreseen this in the Mirror.

In shape he is like the Kings of Númenor of old, tall and grim; the Sea-light is in his countenance. In bearing and thoughts he is indeed very like a lord of the Eldar, wise and far-seeing, though his spirit is strange and fey to me -- the fates of Men are hidden to even the Wise.

Yet as he stands before me, bowed from weariness and his long labors, he seems so very young. I see it in his heart. His heart is like the heart of the Edain in their youth, when they first crossed the mountains and were led into Dorthonion by Felagund; when they first beheld the Eldar, and were awed by the majesty of the Light, and on their faces shone their love and youth like a lamp unblemished by the dark deeds of Morgoth or the long river of woe that became the tales of their people.

May that river be stemmed, for at least a while. I see much in him: much greatness and much sorrow. He will rise or fall with this Age. But whether he rises or no, she shall cleave to him.

O Lórien, let you be the summer of his youth, though may his old age out last you.

"You have come at last, Dúnadan, to Lórien where many hearts dwell. Welcome indeed! I shall array you as one of my own people, and you shall have leave to stay in our Woods until you have found your healing."

In Lórien, the spring is calling,
The Valley of Gold, by the river a-flowing;
The birds awake, their songs are falling
On elanor blooms in winds a-blowing.

Like shinning jewels are stars ascending
On mallorn-leaves and flowers glowing;
The Evenstar bright-- her light is blending
With Sunbeams faded and Moonlight growing.

A ship did sail, from West Undying;
That bore a Stone, with green light shinning.
The bearer shall come, in springtime sighing:
Evenstar, Elessar, their lights entwining.

THE GREEN LANDS
Faramir wakes from a dream.

There were flowers among the green grass. Elven-flowers that I have not seen in waking life, for they grace not these shores. I call them by name. Larielosse the ever-white, lissuin of the sweetest honey, and pale lavaralda, whose colours are lost to mortal lore. Elanor, and nephredil, that grow not in the land of Gondor.

Immortal alfirin, that covers the grave of Elendil.

In my dreams, it covers all of Númenor.

To the west the hills, the emerald grass, the empty halls and idle shepherds; to the east the vast shipyards, glass lamps, and tall black masts. I climb on the steps to the hill where once Elros held the Scepter under a starry sky. But the King has forsaken Meneltarm and all the land is under shadow. There is a trilling in the air that sounds of an unearthly spring.

Fear and love flood my heart.

Suddenly the wave comes. Rising out of the mist in the West, a great, peering wave, taller than the mountains, blotting the sky. It falls like a wrathful hand. Over all the green lands and bright lamps it falls, swollen and mutinous. The sky is as impenetrable as shadow, indistinguishable from the Sea.

The wave pounds on the rocky shores. It swallows the panicked decks of Rómenna, and rolls from flat and heathered moors into the valley of the dead. It froths on the wheat fields like an animal. The ships are foundered and afire. Akallabêth! The Sea is a mouth. I am among the uprooted fir-woods in Hyarrostar, washed into shadow; I stand on the golden hills of Armenelos, where the noblemen are downed like ants. The earth is rent. The light is faint and weeping in the sky.

All is the Sea, shoreless and unbounded.

I am awake. An owl sounds. I open my window.

Down below the guard lights still shine. The day is barely alight, peering beyond the Shadow in the East. The City spreads before me like a queenly jewel though it is but the shadow of the splendors of Númenor.

Yet not for me lost glory, not for me the golden halls.

I yearn for the lost colours of the Elven-flowers. There is a wind that comes from the West, now and again, and in it I hear the terror and the grief. No more can we gather boughs of oiolairë for the prows of our ships, no more for us the golden laurinquë. The ships have sailed and the Tree blooms no more. But alfirin ever grows on the graves of Men.