Disclaimer: Tolkien owns my soul.
The large, white sails billowed in the wind despite the seamen’s best attempts to tie them down. The ships bobbed anxiously on the water, beckoning their elven passengers to make haste.
Erestor stood apart from the hustle and bustle. The Exile was at an end – it was time to go home…
… but he remembered the cold, lifeless body he buried under rock and stone; the screams of anguish that shredded his heart into a bloodied mess…
His blood boiled with the poison of vengeance. Turning and walking resolutely away from the coast, he thought, Nay, not now. Not yet.