~ by Vanessa Parry-Elwen
A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins. In truth, it was hardly a hill and not much of a ruin, but it was the highest point of what had once been a very beautiful garden, topped with a fine pergola. Even now, ancient rose bushes could be seen stranded amongst brambles and ivy and, here and there. A crumbling stone figure leaned precariously at the foot of a flight of impassable, overgrown steps.
The house itself had long ago succumbed to tree root and rain. Carved wooden railings and balconies were decayed to stumps, leaving intrepid explorers clinging to the rocky cliff behind them to avoid falling into the deep chasm of the valley below. Marble columns tilted, sending once finely tiled roofs sliding to their death upon delicate mosaic floors. The ruins of this ancient home were now too dangerous to enter, but sunbeams revealed glimpses of finely painted walls and the shelves of what was once an extensive library. The books were long gone – whether to rot or the greedy hand of looters mattered little now.
Few travellers came here, and even fewer stayed beyond sunset. Those who did said that, when the stars came out, pale figures – slender and graceful – walked hallways and bridges that had long ago crumbled to dust. And sometimes, when Earendil rode the night sky toward the dawn, fair music could be heard, and the figures danced and sang in tongues not heard in Middle earth for many generations of man. But if one were intrepid enough to try and touch these beings, it was said that they dissolved into the mist, and all would be silent again. But a few years more, and The Last Homely House East of the Sea would slip quietly into the land of legend and fireside tale.
The travellers turned away, two sets of grey eyes sparkling with tears. This would be their last visit to the valley.