Forever may I live, But of deathless years I vow that I would give All, to walk once more beneath thy singing trees, Else to glimpse again the jewels of thy seas, Or to breathe once more the wind that scours thy sky. Faêrie, have my bones, and peaceful shall I lie. A SONG OF THE EXILES Upon the back of the Skyhorse Hrimscathr, borne on the tumult of his wings, Ashalind rode with Angavar down to the encampment on the lowlands. For her, theboundaries between wakefulness and sleeping had blurred. In a drowsy suspension of awareness she thought she viewed herself from a vast distance, as though her movements were no more than images printed on a shang parchment while her real self hovered or floated elsewhere. But Angavar’s arms encircled her, and that was all that could be desired—sufficient to numb the senses and ward off all painful reflections, for the nonce. She leaned against him. Beneath the warm folds of the linen shirt his heart beat, slow and strong. Three rings shone on his hands, which rested, empty of reins, along her forearm.
