As Mettarė night wanes, I don my cloak and step from the Hall of Fire, seeking solitude.
The sound, fair but still strange to me, of Elves singing, follows me. I think of the songs sung even now in Minas Tirith, and my father lighting the year-fire without me. My hand reaches toward the uncaring stars, then falls, empty and cold.
My name is called. Turning, I see the Ring-bearer.
The Elven songs are fair, the halfling says, coming to my side. But Yuletide in the Shire is more cheery; and I miss it.
We both are far from home.