[Maegaladiel]

Nahai felt as though she would swell up like a baloon with happiness. Morwyn had called her a "very dear friend", a title she had not held in many long years. She looked around at the small group of unlikely friends; a Beorning, a Rohan woman, and now, two elves whom she hoped she would soon be able to call friends.

Beaming, she patted Morwyn on the back as she finished her song.

"I told you that you could do it. You're a natural. All you needed was to believe in yourself." Yes, it sounded very hokey, but Morwyn didn't seem to mind. In fact, she looked as though she felt as happy as Nahai did.

The Beorning watched as Morwyn handed the flute to the elven woman who had recently joined them. A hawk perched up in the inn's rafters watched her intently. It was a beautiful creature, an animal of both grace and power.

"Is that hawk yours?" she asked the elf. The bird regarded her as though to say, "Nay, SHE is MY elf. Not the other way around." Smiling to the fair elven maiden, Nahai waited for her to reply.

*****************************************

Along the road of life, one faces many challenges. The road of an immortal life is agonizingly long and painful, paved with thorns and tears. The lone traveller did not need anyone to tell him that. His boots worn and mud-spattered, the signs of his true age showed plainly on his fair elven face, making him look strangely like an elder mortal trapped inside an ever-young form.

His tattered green hood cast a despairing shadow across his handsome visage, warping his stoic expression into one mixed with the same sadness and pain that dwelled deep in his heart. He seemed tired, as though he was forcing his body to walk when it had not rested in days. Fatigue did not worry him any longer. Neither did pain, he reminded himself as his bandaged calf sent shocks of white fire careening up and down his leg every time he walked. He touched the scar that decorated his right cheekbone. The sweat running down his face had made it sting and smart. This mere physical pain could not match that which he felt tearig apart the very depths of his soul. She was gone. He had lost her forever.

Biting his lip, he adjusted his quiver of arrows to divert his thoughts from her deep green eyes. His bow, after which he was named, was made of a highly polished wood and inlayed with mithril, giving it the impression of being a weapon wrought of silver.

He forced his mind to the road ahead. He was somewhere in the hobbits' lands now. The little folk had given him several odd glances, but seemed to be used to 'Big People' coming through these parts. A kind farmer had directed him to an inn where he could spend the night, the "Green Dragon."

"Plenty o' your types there, Mister elf," he said. Whether "His types" meant elves or dirty strangers, the traveler didn't know or care. The road goes ever on and on, he thought, and I shall follow it until I find her, whether in this life or the next.