Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I make no money from this.
Notes: Late again, oops.
The light. It was the light that blazed brightest in Erestor’s memories of returning to Eglador.
Ablaze as a beacon amid shifting shadows: gold lanterns spilling light through the grey gloaming, the Esgalduin foaming silver, an enchanted mirror of broken starlight. In a hueless world, Eglador had been vivid: the richness of the tapestries, of butterfly-bright garments, of the sculpted city’s jewels and the woods in their splendour. Of those who welcomed them back, time after time.
Daeron’s nightingale harp sang beneath Erestor’s hands. Tell everything! and Tinfang’s laughter. Ivaeron asking, How dark is the darkness at the world’s end?