The past is already written.
The ink is dry.
But the future remains unset and the Valar have begun to sing a song anew.
Gondor is a kingless state falling into ruin against the Shadow of Mordor. Doomed to fail and forsaken by Men and...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"PAPA!" A girl of five peeked into her father's rooms, bringing a blank piece of canvas and a small box holding glass jars of paint. Ohtar had one of his squires bring the supplies from across the western sea. Aeardis had an affinity for the arts and even at a young age had proved she was quite good at painting and playing both the harp and flute. Her favorite place to paint, though, was on her father's personal balcony overlooking the endless sea.
Ohtar looked up from the scroll of parchment spread out on his desk and placed his quill back into the pot of ink. "Have you finished your lessons, Aeardis?" She nodded and he stood, pulling out the small easel he'd crafted. The lord of the isle finished up his duties for the day with alarming haste, eager to spend time with his young daughter. He sat behind her and watched as she painted a vibrant red-orange sunset over the dark waters of the sea.
That night like many others she asked her father of the elves and the island of Númenor and he told her great stories of battles and magic, of evil things and fairies. Her enthralled expression reminded him of Ioreth's own wide hazy green eyes when she learned of his elven heritage and the history of the island she would call home until her final day. Aeardis begged for another story but Ohtar would tell her no more for the night. He leaned forward, kissing her forehead and took up the candelabrum, bidding her a sweet sleep.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Word had been sent by raven from the Citadel of Minas Tirith. Ecthelion was unwell in his elder years and he wished to see Ohtar to discuss things of a political nature with one of his closest friends and most trusted advisor.
Aeardis was seven now and far too clever for her own good. She read over the small slip of paper while her father busied himself with packing. Ohtar gathered his old sword and shield and placed it beneath the layers of courtly clothes that were to be taken on the journey across the sea. Aeardis sat, still in her smallclothes, on her father's bed and watched, reminding him to bring a spare pair of boots and several more freshly woven tunics. Her own things had been packed the prior day.
"Where are we going?" It was the fifth time she had asked that question over the course of the week since the letter had been received. He had pointed out the White City on the map the first three times. The fourth time he described the splendor of the city telling her that he had met Ioreth there, her mother.
Ohtar scooped his giggling daughter off the crumpled bedsheets and set her upon his shoulders to look out over the sea from the balcony, past the Enchanted Isles, and the dark abyss to the east. He pointed in no particular direction. "Over that far horizon," he told her, smiling.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
A caravel loomed overhead from the port's docks. White sails were being tied to the masts as men carried on crates of goods to be traded with the races of Middle Earth and maybe even those on the mainland of Valinor. Aeardis watched with wide eyes as barrels of salt pork and fresh water were lowered below the deck of a ship by crane.
