Chapter Text
There was a vision:
Erestor drifts through the House, a dark and reclusive phantom. He is quiet; he is calm. As a toothless hound drags his cracked and ancient paws across a diminishing territory, Erestor wanders with nothing but a grim and wasted tedium. He is known as the Ghost of Imladris, it is what they call him. Never how they address him. His is a beauty bred of elegance, stillness, silence, as mystifying and far-flung as the blood-ringed moon. He moves with fluid, ethereal grace: his gestures bound by humility; his shadow, by muted despair. A solemn demeanor guides his everyday manner; an easy deference defines his everyday dealings. Like tempestuous clouds on a red-rimmed horizon, some barely palpable sorrow renders a temptingly beautiful gloom of Erestor’s life. It calls out, this shell, this hollow vessel, to be filled. Anguished heartache makes his beauty a tarnished one, and it is therefore all the more lovely. It calls out. It calls out for a catalyst, a consummation, a kindling.
This was the vision that haunted the Golden Elf of Imladris.