[Imladris]

Lira silently withdrew into the shadows as Beren approached Aman in the stables and began to converse with her. She smiled at the man and woman and began to absently stroke Merkaliel, whose white coat glistened in the the light of the rising moon. Merkaliel whickered softly to Lira and the elf leaned her head upon the horse's neck, and breathed deeply. The pleasant smell of hay and oats tickled her nostrils and the good fresh smell of horse brought her mind back to the days she had spent in Imladris. Strange that the smell of a horse could remind her of that fair dwelling. "What do you think, Merkaliel," she whispered. "What is the most beautiful place we have been?" Lira softly began to sing in her soft enchanting, haunting voice:

In Mirkwood, the forest green, lives an elvish kingdom fair,
Under shelter of mighty trees are royal feasts with food and wine to spare.
Beauty thrives there, and evil has no place there
For the spiders have been driven back and n'er a one is left in their black lair.

Lothlorien, the golden wood, alas for beauty faded.
Elanor flowers no longer fall to ground, its grief is not abated.
No longer is the presence of the lady seen or felt or heard,
Deserted it is save for the sound of a wand'ring bird.

Rohan, land of plains and grassy fields, realm of the horse lords great and tall,
And Eomer, King of the Mark, dwells in splendour in the Golden Hall.
King Elessar, in Gondor, rules with noble wisdom upon his long awaited throne.
In Rivendell, elves still sing of times forgetten, of lore in haunting tones.
The Shire, home to the little folk, is yet covered with grass green and fine,
And Hobbits remain in blissful solitude, untouched by the hand of Time."