On The Morning Tide

On the Morning Tide
Inspired by Poets of the Fall's beautiful song.
On the Morning Tide lyrics © Poets of the Fall
Click here to watch the video.

(I have borrowed the essential structure of the Elven world of J. R. R. Tolkien for my story. There is Meánithir, equivalent to Middle-earth and Tír Dhúchais, equivalent to Valinor, which is the hidden eternal home of Elvenkind. Other than that, there is no connection between my story and Tolkien.)

Vezara Alimairan pulled her cloak close against the pull of the wind as she stepped onto her balcony. Looking out over the land beyond, she sighed softly. It had been a long fight, and the price of victory had been high. Still, they had endured and in the end the Elven Kingdoms in Meánithir had been preserved. She had fulfilled her destiny.

The seer had spoken over her at birth, giving her name: Vezara, the 'peace lightning' who would break the darkness. For this reason she had been born and given her magic. She was raised for that one purpose, to save their civilization and she had done just that, breaking the dark sorcery and allowing their forces to prevail. She was victorious. She was celebrated. She was Alimairan - shadow/slayer/binder - the hero of her people.

Why, then, did she feel so empty?

The wind whipped her pale blond hair and she pushed it back behind her ears. Memory pulled at her - a time long ago, when she was young even by the reckoning of mortals - and a boy, barely older than she, who had lived next door to her all of her youth.

It was late evening, after the meal and a long day of studies and training. Tired and cranky, she went to the garden to sit on her favorite bench and grumble to herself. Within minutes a dark haired male figure shinnied over the wall.

"What has got you so vexed?" Already tall, Kethear had yet to put weight on his frame. Suffering from the brief adolescent clumsiness common to boys who gained height quickly, he put up with his friend's teasing with good grace. But then, Kethear took everything with good grace, even her grumbles.

"Sometimes I don't WANT to be an adult," she moaned.

"No help for it, I'm afraid." He knelt down in front of her and his gentle fingers combed back her corn silk hair from in front of her face, tucking it behind her ears. "Difficult day?"

"Difficult. Long. " She sighed. "Tiring. I'm sorry. None of this is your problem."

"It's not a problem," he said gently. "We're friends, Vezara. I don't mind if you need to talk about your frustration. I can't imagine how hard it must be to carry such responsibility from birth."

"Oh, Kethear." Tears welled in her eyes.

He didn't hesitate. He moved to sit beside her and wrapped his arms around her, rocking her gently and making soothing noises while she cried.

A sharp gust pulled Vezara back to the present. Taking a deep breath, she pushed down the tears. Far above, a hawk screeched as it circled on the wind above her tower. As though in answer the gulls down by the sea set up a cacophony of calls.

With another sigh she turned and went back inside. Her capable and attentive servants had brought her tea and left it by her chair. Capable and attentive as they were, her servants did not intrude or think to ask if she might want company. Why would the Alimairan need the company of a lowly servant?

Hanging her cloak on a peg, she sat, poured her tea and sipped it as she stared into the fire. Outside the wind blew, but the room was quiet. When the cup was empty, she sat it aside. Lulled by the warmth and quiet, she dozed.

A mist surrounded her on all sides, but it was warm, not cold. She supposed she should be frightened, but she was merely curious.

"Sail ..." It was but a whisper, so soft she was not entirely certain she had heard it. She turned in a circle, listening.

"On the morning tide ..." A whisper, in a deep voice that touched a cord in her soul. Again she turned, trying to discern the direction it came from.

"Come with me?" The soft plaintive question pulled at her.

"Where?" she cried. "Where are you?"

"Love ... is ... still ... here ..."

Vezara jerked awake, agitated. As short and simple as it had been, the dream disturbed her. Determined to put it out of her mind, she rose and went about her business until bedtime.

She slept heavily and awoke feeling dull and listless, but that was not unusual. Yet is seemed to her that the voice, the whisper had followed her through the night, pulling at her, leaving her soul raw.

Her day was spent on correspondence - letters to her mother and father, her sisters, her older brother. They sent pages full of their small domestic activities, and she responded with good wishes and rarely a bit of her own doings. It was more of a chore than usual to muster up the motivation, but she finished nonetheless. She was used to holding to duty, however unsatisfying.

By the time she had eaten her evening meal she was restless. She walked form room to room, eventually ending up in her library. Deciding that perhaps some reading would suit her mood, she scanned the shelves for a likely volume.

Her roving gaze stopped on a title and a sharp pang went through her. On another day she would have ignored it as she had so many times before, or acted as though it didn't matter. But it did, and today she simply couldn't pretend otherwise. Taking the book from the shelf, she looked at the beautifully crafted binding that was so appropriate for a book of the best Elven poetry. Very carefully she opened the cover. A lovely bookplate was set on the flyleaf. Flowers and runes fashioned of gold leaf made the frame for the words hand-written in  the center:

To my dear Vezara
On her birthday
In her 200th year
From Kethear

Again memory intruded on her present, sending her back to that day long ago ...

"Oh, Kethear, it's lovely!!"

"I'm glad you like it." Kethear said from his lounging position next to her on the divan, his handsome face alight with pleasure at her approval. "I ordered it from the bookshop almost a year ago."

"I'm flattered." She looked down at the lovely bookplate, her hair falling on either side, effectively shielding her pink cheeks from him.

"Why?" He chuckled. "Since I was old enough to understand the custom I've never forgotten your birthday and I always try to get a gift you'll truly enjoy. Why is that flattery?"

"You don't gift all the girls," she said with a smile. "Not even Aerien, and she lives next door to you, also."

"But she's not you," Kethear replied placidly. He reached over to tuck her hair behind her ears, pleased at the color in her cheeks. He took the book from her hands. "Now, which poem do you want me to read to you? Are you in the mood for adventure or romance?"

"Both," she replied. "Adventure first, then romance."

"At your command, my Lady." He turned to a piece about the coming of the Elves to Meánithir from the isle of Tír Dhúchais, the Elvenhome of antiquity. Stretching out his long legs, he began to read.

His name meant 'wind singer' and his deep melodic voice fit the poetry perfectly. It made the story come alive. She knew the tales, but when Kethear read them, they became new. As he read, she leaned against his shoulder. Deeds of bravery and valor passed before her mind's eye, her imagination flying on the wings of his gifted voice.

Finishing the adventure, he turned to the tale of the human man who fell in love with the daughter of the Elven High King and how her father sent her back to Tír Dhúchais to put her beyond his reach. The intrepid human followed and against all odds his mortal feet touched the sand of the undying lands. Because of his great devotion, the elder guardians gifted him with immortal life and set both he and his beloved to sail the heavens in an ebony ship studded with vials of light. Yet his incursion was not without effect, as it caused the Eternal Isle to shift, so that it could no more be found from Meánithir. Because of the King's unwise decision, the only way for Elvenkind to return to their ancient home was through the veil of death.

"Thank you, Kethear," she said as he finished.

"It's my pleasure." He leaned his head to rest his cheek against her hair. "Always. You know that."

"Yes, I do."

Vezara choked back a sob as the memory faded. Hugging the precious book to her, she moved like a sleepwalker across the room and down the hall to her bedchamber. Tucking it under her pillow, she changed into her nightgown and crawled into bed.

Her sleep was fitful. Tossing and turning she passed through the late night into the small hours of the morning.

Once again she stood in a warm fog. As she stood, straining her ears for any sound, she felt a gentle touch of a breeze against her cheek. She turned to face into the flow of air as the mist began to move and shift around her.

"On the morning tide ..." Came the voice, slightly louder but still soft, carried on the breeze.

She began to walk in the direction of the voice and, she hoped, the speaker.

"Won't you come with me?"

The question, filled with longing, stirred a fragile hope - so fragile she was afraid to even acknowledge it, for fear it would shatter.

"Sail to the shore with me ..."

The invitation pulled at her, wrapped around her like a clinging vine, its tendrils sinking into her very soul.

The breeze grew stronger. As she strained her eyes to see anything but mist, she began to see - or think she saw - pinpoints of light.

"Love .. is ... still ... here ..." The voice was just a bit louder still.

She began to run, heedless of any possibility of danger. Somewhere ahead of her was something ... something she needed ... wanted ... something she had lost and desperately had to find again.

The mist broke, and she slid to a stop just short of a sharp drop. Ahead of her was the sea and far out to sea her keen Elven eyes could just make out what seemed to be a ship. Moreover, a ship like none she had ever seen, made of silver and gossamer light.

"On the morning tide,
We'll hoist the sails to brave the crashing waves ..."

A large white-capped plume struck the rocks below her, showering her with water.

Vezara sat up in bed, gasping. Telling herself it was merely a dream did nothing to quell the turmoil inside her breast.  Moments later there was a soft tap at the door and a short pause before a maid brought in a tray with tea, toast and fruit for her breakfast.

"Just leave it," she said, tossing back the covers. The maid curtsied and left. Pulling on her dressing gown, she sat and reached for the teapot. There was no notice of appointments on her tray, so she would have no visitors today.

For a time after that final victory she had been visited regularly, either by the curious or those who sought her wisdom. But her great deeds had not been a product of her might or wisdom, but of a gift handed her by providence. The curious found her rather ordinary and those who sought wisdom found that hers was no better than theirs. In hindsight it was likely worse, in fact, as the memory rose up to taunt her ...

"Vezara, surely you can take some time for yourself once in a while," Kethear said earnestly, striding along beside her.

"There are signs that point to the arising of the shadow," she said. "I have to be ready."

"You will be," he assured her firmly. "You've worked hard all of your life to master your gift. But that doesn't mean you can't have other interests."

"I don't have time," she said irritably.

"Vezara!" Kethear caught her arm, brought her around to face him forcing her to stop. "Aren't you entitled to a life besides your gift?"

"If I'm not ready there will be no life for anyone, Kethear. You know that."

"You'll be ready." He reached out and tucked her hair back behind her ears, then lay a hand gently on her cheek. "You're driving yourself too hard. I'm worried about you. You need some time for yourself. If you keep up this pace, I'm worried that you burn yourself out before you get to the fight."

"Kethear, I appreciate the concern ..."

"But it makes no difference." He threw up his hands. "How do I get through to you!!" He shouted.

"What?!?" It was so unlike Kethear to explode like this. "What is the matter with you?"

"What is the matter with me?" He rubbed his forehead, still plainly exasperated. "Oh, I don't know. I'm watching the woman I love drive herself into the ground, that's all."

"Love?" Her jaw dropped.

"Love," he replied firmly, then he shook his head. "How could you not know? I've loved you for YEARS, Vezara. Years. I've been patient, and tried to be supportive ..."

"Patient?" Her mind spun and a kind of panic assailed her. "No," she said shaking her head. "No. I can't do this. I HAVE to keep focused."

"Focused," Kethear said dully. "Right. Focused." He let out a long sigh. "So what do you need me to do?"

"I need you to let me do what I have to do, without distractions."

"All right," he said, returning to a placid state, at least outwardly. "Just as long as you remember that I'm here for whatever you need."

"I will."

"Good."

How stupidly arrogant and prideful she had been! Looking back, she had regularly taken Kethear, and his affection for her, for granted. He had trained for war as diligently as she, gaining the name 'shining spear' - Ridlar - for his skill with a lance. Yet no matter what she said or did, even when she treated his declaration of love so rudely, he had not given up or walked away. No one else was ever so devoted.

Oh, there had been those after the victory who claimed to be committed to her, but over the course of time the visitors to her tower had slowed - from a torrent to a trickle, then to a near complete halt. Few came to see her now. None had come for months. She spent her days in her tower doing mundane things, spinning out the hours with empty tasks. What, after all, was there to do? Her gift had served its purpose. The Shadow was broken and dissolved, the Dark Sorcerer that fed and bred it was dead and gone without remedy.

So she spent the day as she had so many before. Time dragged and lengthened interminably. She fell to cleaning and tidying already clean and tidy spaces, desperate to make the time pass. As a result, however busy her mind remained, her body was physically tired as she sought her bed. Even so it was far into the night before she slept.

"Sail ..."

The word seemed a part of the mist, swirling around her. She turned and ran, needing no sound to guide her this time. She felt the pull, a visceral tug on her heart.

The mist moved and danced about her, the spinning silvery patterns growing ever thinner.

"On the morning tide ..."

The voice was clear and its familiar tones reverberated in her soul.

"We'll hoist the sails to brave the crashing waves."

The mist cleared and once again she stood on a cliff. Before her, clearly visible now to her far-seeing eyes, a ship of silver and light floated on the crest of the waves, her sails full as she came onward.

On the shining bowsprit a male figure stood, tall, straight and strong. Holding to the sail lines he leaned into the wind, his dark hair streaming behind him in the gale.

"Won't you come with me and hear the ocean sigh?
And if to its depths it called us by our names ..."

Joy and pain, hope and fear, denial and longing warred within her.

"Won't you sail to the shore with me?"

The waves crashed against the cliffs below, sending up a fine spray that sparkled on her skin like diamonds. Her gaze locked on the distant figure, recognizing that form, yet afraid to admit it.

"Love .. is ... still ... here ...
Come with me?"

Tears blurred her eyes as the wind rose higher. If, somehow, she could reach the ship ... There was only one way. Closing her eyes, she jumped.

Awaking with a start, she almost cried out with frustration. At the last, she had finally felt free - free of the dullness, the apathy - the loneliness that ate at her like a caustic. When her tray came, she took only a cup of tea, sending the rest away. She had no stomach for food.

Vezara was aware of the concerned looks from the servants as the day passed, but she didn't care. She heard the way they whispered among themselves as she walked through the tower, top to bottom and back again - over and over. She could not keep still, yet to go outside, into the wind, made her ache with an emotion that was almost physically painful.

All her life had been dedicated to learning to use the power she was given. Yet at times she almost hated the gift she was born to wield. Had it not been for that, how different her life might be. It had saved elven-kind but had cost her something precious - a thing she had not truly valued until it was gone.

Twilight found her standing on the topmost balcony, enduring the wind-ache as she looked out over the pass that led to her tower. Beyond that pass lay the Elven Kingdom, at peace now for three years, thanks to the lightning in her hands. On the far side beyond the shining cities and towns lay the fields of a place long called Dulas, the wild glade, now called Rum-mal, the meadow of war where first the lightning was loosed ...

All around the warriors readied their weapons. The tension rose higher by the moment. Finally the harsh war horns of the enemy sounded their advance. Like swam of angry insects they erupted into the glade, shrouded in the shadow. Slamming into the Elven defenders they fought with a single mind, vicious and intent on death - kill or be killed.

This was the moment she had waited for, trained for, all of her life. She took a deep breath, readied herself for the shock of the power ... and froze. All of the strain of years coalesced into a ball of stress that overwhelmed her and her mind simply locked, refusing to function.

A breeze lifted her hair, a whisper of melody.

"Vezara ..." Soft, sweet and poignant it broke the hold of the tension.

The lightning sprang forth, crackling into the wall of darkness, shattering it like glass. A howl of anger and anguish rolled through the enemy. The defenders rallied and began to drive the monsters back. The power flowed freely now, finding its targets unerringly. She continued to send it forth, until the time that there simply was no more.

Looking around, she saw none of the enemy alive on the field. Not a single wisp of shadow remained. Yet the victory was not without cost. Dead and wounded littered the field.

Nearly stumbling with weariness, she looked around, seeking a particular dark-haired warrior. As her eyes passed over one man after another, she began to feel a rising panic as none of them was the one she sought. A strange dullness took her as she saw her brother Selwyn coming toward her, his expression grave.

"What ..." Her throat closed on the question.

"Kethear Ridlar asks for you," her brother said gently. "Come quickly."

She followed woodenly to the tent that housed the wounded. Selwyn guided her past the rows of patients, passing from those with minor hurts to progressively more serious wounds. She began to see the fully covered bodies of the dead before Selwyn stopped, gestured to one prone form and withdrew.

"Vezara ..." Came a horse whisper. A long fingered left hand reached for her.

She looked down and nearly screamed. Bandages covered his right side, showing red where the blood soaked through. His right arm lay lifeless. She could only imagine the destruction hidden under the white cloth. Her own hand shook as she grasped his. His fingers wrapped weakly around hers.

With a ragged moan she dropped to her knees, holding his hand in her two. His face was blessedly whole, with only a small abrasion on his right cheek. His silver eyes locked with her blue ones which were brimming with tears.

"Shhhhhh .." He soothed. "You did well, my girl."

"But I didn't," she murmured roughly. "You were right. I was too tense. I froze. I delayed." Tears spilled over to run down her cheeks. "Had I not .."

"No," he said swiftly. He coughed and grimaced in pain. "Don't think that way, Vezara. Fate moves as it does. I am called to Tír Dhúchais."

"No." Yet even as she denied it, she knew it was true. His life was seeping away with the blood soaking his bandages. "How am I to go on without you?"

"Vezara ..." His hand moved, tucking the hair that fell around her face behind her ear, then grasping hers again. "You can do it. You WILL do it. I believe in you. Always."

"Kethear ..." Tears choked her. She cradled his hand to her cheek.

"Don't blame yourself, my love."

"But you were right. All we could have had, all that could have been ..."

"Love is still here, Vezara," he murmured softly. "Never will it leave. You're always with me, and I'm always with you. Always. Even in the beauty of Tír Dhúchais I will love you."

"Kethear ..."  She swallowed a sob. "Kethear, I do love you. I do."

"I know," he murmured weakly. "I've always known, dear heart."

She knelt there, holding his hand as his strength ebbed away and the red stain grew ever larger. She watched as his breathing grew more and more labored until it finally sighed out for one last time and the light faded from his silver eyes. She knelt there still when the healer came and closed those eyes, then gently pried her fingers from his hand.

'He is gone to Tír Dhúchais, Vezara. His pain is past. But the shadows are gathering again."

Only duty remained, and she would not fail and betray his confidence in her. She rose, squared her shoulders and went back to the battle.

Tears flowed freely down her face as memory released her.

Five years she had fought. She had persevered and she had triumphed, but there had been no strong arms to hold her, no sparkling gray eyes to look on her victory, no deep voice praising her deeds and calling her to celebration. As the rest of Elven-kind rejoiced, she slipped away alone and finally wept and mourned the loss she had not had time to acknowledge.

Through those years, she often wished that she could die as well. At least then they would be together. But death had eluded her, refusing release. However painful, she would live on without him. The temptation to simply let herself fall over the railing was strong, yet she knew that such a thing would not serve any purpose but to bring pain to those who cared for her - Kethear most of all.

"Alimairan," said a soft voice of a maid. "It is our monthly days off, but if you need any of us ..."

"No," said Vezara, her voice rough and sad. "I'll be fine. All of you go to your families."

"All right, Mistress." The girl turned and went back inside.

Still looking out over the land she dimly heard them leave. She watched until the sun sank below the horizon and the silver stars began to shine. The chill of the wind finally sent her inside. The tower was utterly still, empty of all but her - as empty as she was.

There was food in the larder, but she wanted nothing. She wandered through the rooms, aimless, until finally she found herself in her bedchamber. Stripping off her gown, she reached for her nightclothes, then stopped. Standing before her mirror, she thought that she looked much the same as she ever had, save for the sadness in her eyes.

In a fit of sentimentality she turned to her closet, rifling through the garments there to find a gown that was secreted in the back, covered in paper, but still as fine as it ever was. She drew the garment out and tore the paper away.

Her eyes misted with tears even as she gave a tremulous smile. Made for her coming of age, the deep blue satin was still crisp and glossy, as was the netting over the skirt, spangled with tiny crystals that looked like stars in the night sky. Kethear had loved this dress. She carefully slipped it on, then slid her feet into her silver slippers. She brushed her hair and set silver combs in her thick tresses.

Shaking her head at her silliness, she left the room and went downstairs. She still wanted no food, but she took a bottle of wine and a glass with her to the study. There she opened the wine and poured a glass before she turned and looked up at the portrait above the mantle.

When the last battle was won, the grateful people had wanted to shower her with gifts. In the end, she had asked for only two things - the tower near the sea and this portrait - Kethear in formal dress, standing tall and straight with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

Raising her glass in a silent toast, she drank it down. Retiring to an armchair, she proceeded to drink the rest of the bottle. It had been a long time since she had drank much wine, and Elven wine was potent. Inevitably she dozed.

The wind gusted, rattling the windows.

"Vezara ..." It seemed that the wind called her name.

She sat up and looked around, wondering.

"Sail ..." the wind sighed.

She rose from the chair and walked out of the room, into the vestibule of the tower. The wind gusted and the door flew open. A mist rolled across the threshold.

"Come with me?"

There was no hesitation. Out into the mist she ran, down the path toward the sea. The fog closed in, leaving her blind and she halted, confused. Cool moisture dewed her skin as she strained her ears to hear.

"On the morning tide ..." She KNEW that voice.

"We'll hoist the sails to brave the crashing waves ..." She turned toward the sound.

"Won't you come with me and hear the ocean sigh? ..." Deep, rich and full of longing, the voice set her feet to follow it.

"And if to its depths it called us by our names ..."  She began to run now.

"Won't you sail to the shore with me?" She needed no path. The voice was her guide.

"Love is still here
Never will it leave
You're always with me
And I'm always with you"

 She crested the hill and grass gave way to sand. The wind rose, gusted, swirled ... And parted the mist.

Shimmering in the moonlight was a ship made of gossamer and light. Defying all convention, it was nosed up on the beach, its bowsprit out over the sand. A tall, slim male figure walked along the bowsprit, then jumped to the land. Looking in her direction, he raised his arms and the wind gentled to a soft breeze, caressing her cheek.

"Rise with me now
And we'll walk to the shore ..." He sang as he walked toward her, his dark hair flying in the breeze.

She stood stock still, stunned. It could not be, yet the voice ... The voice was HIS.

"We'll look over the waves
To the breaking of day ..." He came closer, and she realized that what she was seeing was impossible. Dawn was breaking behind him - in the west.

As if in a trance she walked forward to meet him. It could not be real, but she reached out anyway.

"I'll hold your hand ..." His hand closed over hers, warm and solid. Her breath hitched in shock.
"I'll hold you close ..." He drew her into his embrace, his arms wrapping her tightly.
"I'll wipe away your tears ..." Gentle fingers took the moisture from her cheeks.
"And no one will know."

"Kethear," she breathed, looking up into his dear face. His gray eyes were also misty as he smiled. "How?"

"You did all the elder guardians asked of you," he said softly. "And in the end you gained only loneliness. I knew. I felt it across the unnameable distance and even in the splendor of Tír Dhúchais my heart broke with yours." He chuckled. "And I gave them no peace, until they gave me permission to come for you."

"But you cannot return from Tír Dhúchais," she said breathlessly.

"I can," he replied. "I did. For you."

"But ..." She was mired in confusion and doubt. Her mind told her this could not be happening, that he must be the manifestation  of her longing and her memory - a dream, nothing more. "Kethear?" In that one word was all the longing, the need, the heartbreak and loneliness of years. She looked up at him.

He kissed her, with all the passion he had carried for her for so very long.

And then she knew - because she had no memory to compare to this. It was truly Kethear, her dear love, impossibly returned to her. When, after a long space he drew back, he smiled tenderly as her tucked her corn silk hair back behind her ears.

"Will you stay?" she asked.

"I can't." His hands framed her face. "Will you come?"

There was a time when she would have hesitated, but it was long past.

"Yes," she said simply. "But I must tell my family."

"Indeed we must." Kethear reached into his pocket and pulled out a small scroll. "I'll confess that I counted on your coming with me, and so had this at the ready." He raised his hand, and a white hawk flew to his wrist. Attaching the scroll to its leg, he spoke softly to the bird, who nodded its head as though in understanding. Then it unfurled its wings and flew off toward their birthplace. "There. It is done."

"You've gained some new talents," she said with a smile.

"As you will. Tír Dhúchais is beautiful and wondrous beyond description," he said. "There was but one thing lacking to make all perfect. You, my love."

"I love you, Kethear Ridlar."

"And I love you, Vezara Alimairan."

"No," she protested. "I am only Vezara."

"You are Alimairan, always" he insisted. "And now your personal shadows must give way to light."

They walked across the sand to the beach where the ship lay waiting. He released her from his embrace, stepped back and held out his hand.

"Come to me now ..." He sang.

She did not look back or hesitate, but took his hand.

"And together we'll go ..." He wrapped her close and the wind began to rise.

"Where the clearer winds blow
 Far and beyond ..." Wrapping around them, the swirl began to lift them from the ground.

"Leaving behind
All our sorrow and pride ... " He smiled at her as the wind wafted them up and over the railing and onto the deck.

"Kissin' them goodbye
Into another life ..." He kissed her again and the sails began to snap as the wind filled them.

With his arm around her waist, he threw back his head and his voice rang out across the beach and the water:

"On the morning tide
We'll hoist the sails to brave the crashing waves
Won't you come with me and hear the ocean sigh?
And if to its depths it called us by our names
Won't you sail to the shore with me?"

The ship rose and turned in a slow pirouette until it faced the shining west. Kethear 's voice waxed even more powerful as the ship began to fly on the winds that he sang into existence.

His voice did not falter as the ship flew on, and the glow on the horizon began to grow like an impossible dawn. It was then that Vezara realized what it was she saw. It was not the sunrise, but a light far older and purer than any in mortal lands - Tír Dhúchais, the ancient immortal home of her people. As the mortal sea fell away below them the gossamer craft they rode rose and passed over into the realm of eternity.

In the epic songs of Elvenhome, none was more beloved and bespoke than the story of Kethear Ridlar, who returned against all odds to mortal lands by virtue of his songs - songs that were fueled by the love he carried for his lady, Vezara Alimairan, heroine of her people.