The soldiers were no longer encamped along the shoreline north and south of the harbour; the neat rows of white tents that had recently covered the jewel-sands were now packed inside the holds of the fleet, along with armour and countless weapons.  The troops who had dwelled therein had boarded the last of the ships just as Arien guided the Sun over the eastern horizon.

Most of the armada was already beyond the breakwaters, but two swan ships were still tied on either side of the most prominent pier, their gangplanks ready to be hoisted once their captains were aboard.  They gleamed, golden in the dawn light, the hawsers that bound them against the dock manned by sailors eager to set sail.

On the quay, Olwë watched as his sons embraced then turned to board their respective ships.  Their practical clothing was a contrast to the blue and grey formal robes that he and his wife, Lirillë, wore in honor of those who sailed to destroy Morgoth's evil and succor those elves and men who dwelt in fear.

"May the journey be blest and thy return be swift," he whispered, weeping, holding Lirillë and his daughter close to his side.