Just under his feet, the grass was green and tough, despite all the December winds. At his feet, there was a plain gray stone. Someone's hand had decorated its surface with a chiseled image of a torch and a harp. For the fifty and hundred years the image had slightly been rubbed off.
Arafinwe squatted and caressed the grass with his hand. Cold, with sharp edges, fighting the winds and the winter to the last, the grass was clinging to his palm with the gentleness that only he could understand.
He knew that Findarato had been restored to life and was waiting for him in the distant Valinor, but here it had no more meaning than a yesterday song. The King of the Noldor in Valinor was standing on the grave of his son, the son who had died on this isle fifty and a hundred years ago.
Arafinwe fell on his knees and pressed his cheek to the cold, frozen ground.