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The face of the stranger was hidden beneath his hood, but in those peaceful days, any Man or Elf in need of healing was welcome in Imladris.
“What seems to be the trouble?” asked Elrond. “Need a little something for the arthritis?” He nodded toward the stranger’s gnarled hand.
“I’m depressed,” said the stranger. His head remained bowed. His voice was low, muffled. Whether from sorrow or an attempt to conceal his identity, Elrond neither knew nor cared. No creature of evil could penetrate the sanctuary of the valley.
“Many are the woes of the world,” said Elrond in sympathy.
“Another year ends, a new year begins, and I wander still in pain and regret. The long life of the Eldar seems cruel, as I have lost all who once loved me. I walk my path alone. Defeated. Doomed.”
“Well, are you a Noldo?”
The stranger carried on. “The Light has failed, and the Darkness that followed is more than loss of light. The tides of Time will sweep away all that is fair and wonderful. Ah, woe! That we should live on, in this place of foul death! Woe, woe and grief!”
“Look,” said Elrond, “I can see you’re troubled. Despair not. I’m not that kind of Healer, but I know what you can do. A great bard is scheduled to perform tonight. In fact, he’s meant to arrive any moment now. Go and see him. That should lift your heart.”
The stranger did not speak for a long moment.
Then he pulled back his hood.
Elrond drew in a sharp breath. Long ago, he had given up the search, but never had he given up hope. He swallowed hard.
“But Healer,” said the stranger, at last. An impish smile lit his dim countenance. “I am the great bard.”