Seven Stones and Seven Stars and One White Tree by Shirebound

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HOLLIN

The Elf touched us and we roused, warmed by recognition and communion we had not known in many turnings of the Sun.  But it was the voice of the Dwarf, murmuring in the stone-tongue, that brought us to full awareness once again.  Who, these folk who tarry nearby, each different?  Two Men, their spirits beating to the pulse of destiny, hope, kingdoms gone and struggling and yet to be… they scramble up our slopes heedless of our regard.  The Elf returns to us now and again, hoping we have something to tell him of those who once dwelt here… but they left and have not returned.  The Dwarf stays close, drawing strength from our strength.  He is a true son of his people, and perhaps we will see him again.  The Maia… we know him.  He has passed our way before, always respectful, never tarrying.

And there are young, vibrant voices in this group, children of the northern meadows, knowing little of stone and unable to hear our voices.  They wish only respite from something that troubles them, comfort in one another’s presence, a warm place to rest in our tumbled arms.

We measure time in long, long measure, and so it is but an instant before they are gone, voices stilled, footfalls a memory.  Yet we are not as forsaken as we believed.  It was pleasing to sense more than bird and beast, wind and stars.  Perhaps change is coming, and we will rise again -- builded and proud, shelter and ornament.  Our roots go deep, but we are glad of air and sun and company.  Perhaps change is coming.




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