[Saelind]

With a weary sigh, Thalion adjusted the heavy burden in his arms, mounted the steps of the Inn, and slowly pushed open the door. It was late: many of the dinner guests or those who had stopped in for an ale had already retired for the night or headed home. Glancing across the mostly empty tables where visitors normally gathered to eat, Thalion searched for the Innkeeper or any of the staff who could rent him a room. He would be staying only one night. The next morning, he planned to rise before sunset and slip away unnoticed while everyone else was still in their beds.

Over the past few years, the Dragon had seen its share of Elven travellers. In the bad old days when Sauron's shadow fell over the land, the Elves from Lorien and Rivendell had chosen to travel through the sheltered woods of the Green Hill Country, a secret trek witnessed by very few, heading straight to the Havens where they would board Cirdan's ship. Now that times were better and Elves could walk safely among men and hobbits, many of these travellers took a more northerly route that led through small towns like Frogmorton and Bywater. Their final destination, however, remained the same: to board a ship at the Grey Havens that would carry them to Tol Eressea or Aman, a journey from which there was no return.

Thalion had been over the problem a hundred times in his head. His beloved Lorien was now an empty outpost. The only sign of the vibrant community that had once dwelled there were a few tattered flets dangling from the treetops. The Elves had long since departed. The utter loneliness of the place had almost driven Thalion mad. What good was a healer when there was no one to heal?

In desperation, Thalion had fled to Rivendell where a number of his kind remained. Here he had plenty of patients needing his services: a few Elves who had suffered physical injuries and numerous travellers of every race who had made their way for a visit to the once secret city in the mountains. But even this lovely place had not made him happy. Rivendell was a sanctuary for Elves who preferred to live inside and delve into the mysteries of lore. Despite the hauntingly beautiful dwellings and the richness of Rivendell's scrolls, Thalion never felt he belonged there. Although he appreciated the fine feasts and the wealth of stories and song, he did not like spending so much time indoors.

He needed folk who loved the earth, the wind, and the sky as much as he did. He needed a land that still had a tiny touch of faerie about it. He did not insist on a large contingent of Elves--that would be impossible to find--but there had to be an occasional Elf or two dropping by for him to be happy. Sadly, he had not found such a place in all his travels through the east, certainly not anywhere where he would want to bring Nevelin.

If only Anoriel was here! She would know what to do. But that was the heart of his problem. The war had wrenched his wife away and left him with a huge responsibility for which he felt totally unprepared. Thalion's musings were interrupted by the appearance of a hobbit who worked at the Inn, "Excuse me," he spoke up, "Could I have a room for two?"

"Two?," she queried. "Is your friend outside?"

"No, right here." Gently, Thalion held out the bundle in his arms, pushing back the blanket to reveal the fine features of a young Elf, sound asleep and curled up in a ball. "This is my son Neviel." The boy looked to be no more than nine years in human terms, though what that might be in Elvish years was not clear to the hobbit.

"A room, please, just for tonight. We'll be leaving for the Havens tomorrow." Thalion's voice sounded old and defeated.

The hobbit nodded and said nothing but led him over to the register. The Elf wrote out his name in neat, tidy runes and then leafed haphazardly through the guestbook. His eyes lit up in surprize at the number of Elves he recognized, some boarding for a night or two, others staying much longer. Finally, he glimpsed a familiar name on the first page of the book, one that was emblazoned in a bright, bold script: Piosenniel .

Piosenniel? Memories flooded back over time. That rascal of a young woman who strode about with sword on hip, yet the old stories whispered that she was beloved of Idril. He could recall a time or two before his marriage when she had cleverly bested him in games of chance. Always the restless one, Piosenniel had gone her own way, and Thalion had often wondered what had happened to her.

He looked questioningly over at the hobbit, "You wouldn't know anything of this Piosenniel....how long she was here or when she sailed to the Havens? But 'tis late. Perhaps you'd prefer to speak tomorrow?"