The last journey of an old Bladesinger
The last few days passed faster and faster. Elithrar felt the call of Arvandor, the call that also led him to this land. But with each passing day, he felt his strength fading. Even more now, after the meeting of the council. When everyone had left and Elithrar retreated in peace, he allowed himself a breather and sank to the ground beneath an old tree. Old and mighty now, but a small seed once, when Elithrar planted it. He looked up at the towering oak and its shadow that reached out far. And slowly the exhaustion took over. The old elf collapsed and sunk into a reverie.
Conclusion of a life
In his meditation, he heard a distant voice: "The last task is fulfilled, the rest should be done by the younger ones - this is nothing for an old man to do anymore. At some point, they too will come to the conclusion that the most important and true secrets are not hidden treasures, cults or fame. It is the friends and companions you surround yourself with, to truly understand them and really knowing yourself."
The old elf smiled to himself as the moonlight surrounded him like an invisible cloak of silver light. It was time for his last journey.
Laying down of the blade
It was a cold winter's day in Alturiak when Elithrar climbed the steps of the temple. He felt that the magic was leaving him and when he finally stood before the temple's altar to Sheanine Moonbow, he could could barely find the strength to raise his Katana one last time. As he pulled the katana out of its scabbard, immediately the moonbeams danced across the old rune-covered blade. With a lithe movement he laid his sword on the altar and softly he spoke:
"So the time has come my old and only companion. Long years we spent together but six centuries of war are truly enough. Our way was long and arduous, and it was marked by the true art of the blade dance. But also by blood, death and destruction. Now it is enough, we have taken enough lives, shed enough blood. For your strength in time of needs, I am ever grateful. May your spirit find a new true dancer of the blade." He turned his eyes to the moon. "Sehanine, my love. Here before you I will lay down my sword. I swear to never again raise steel, never again to shed any more blood. My hand will never again lead my sword." He remained before the temple's altar as he felt the magic between his blade and himself passing away. There he stood. Old, fragile and powerless, but with a the smile of a warrior who complied his duties of life.
All of a sudden, a cold, gruesome pain ran through his body, causing him to cough and crumble. The runes on the Katana glowed one last time in the so familiar silk gloss silver light, until it hesitantly faded and left the whole blade in a shiny black. The bond of blade and dancer was gone. Minutes later he straightened up slowly, taking a blue silk handkerchief embroidered with many names, the names of old sword-bearers, from the temple's altar. Slowly and carefully, he wrapped the Katana in the cloth and spoke softly in the old elven tongue. "Rest well, old friend, our war ends here and today, you deserve it. You and me, our souls are one." In silent devotion, he kneeled until dawn, the sword wrapped in front of him resting, resting on the altar.
Birth of an archer
When he stepped down from the temple's pedestal, a young elf approached the temple's stairs and she immediately lowered her head in comity and recognition of the old bladesinger. "Glassen an ngovaded le, Silivren, harthon gerithach raid gelin a melthin", the old elf smiled and touched her shoulder. And it was in this moment he felt and old magic. A magic, he felt hundreds of years before. The bond he once forged with his Katana, this magic, he felt in the touch. He paused for a slight moment, looking at the young elf and her bow. "Ná Aerdrie veria le, Silivren, may Aerdrie guard you well on your journeys."
Silivren "Tiriel" Tinuviel, The white "Watching" Nightingale