"A white wing! There are sails on the horizon! A ship comes from the East!"
A messenger ran down the stair of polished stone that winds from the Tower of the Seeing Stone to the elf city of Avallonë on Tol Eressëa. Joyfully he called aloud his news for all to hear, and the inhabitants of the city stayed their music for a spell and hearkened to him gladly, for ships came seldom now to the Undying Lands, and many of the Eldar still yearned for tidings from sundered Arda. For through long parting from the lands where once they had walked for many ages of the world, the elves held ever in their hearts a love of Middle Earth, and though to dwell nigh Valinor was to know joy and peace as the world below knows not, still many grieved for the parting even as they sang for the lights of Varda and the music that drifted ever from the west. Therefore they came to the messenger and eagerly pressed him for details of this new arrival, for not yet could even the keenest elf eye espie any flicker on the eastern skyline, and they knew the Master of the Stone saw further than all.
"How far is it? When will it arrive? Who comes?" they cried.
"It is far distant still, but borne on a fair breeze along the Straight Road westward. You may see it soon from the high places, though I doubt that it will dock before tomorrow's dawn. As for who comes – the Master of the Stone did not say, but I saw him smile as he gazed into the palantir, and I doubt not but that there will soon be a merry meeting."
Thereupon silver bells rang out in the city, and the messenger ran on through the streets and down through tiered gardens, towards the port, and the tidings rang from carven stone and golden tree. And some of the elves climbed into the hills above the port, or gathered in the gardens, facing seaward, and others perched aloft in the flets and branches of tall elms and mallorns. Still others followed the path to the port itself and near the pier, on the pale sand, they waited, while the sun dipped below the peak of Taniquetil and the shadows stretched before them.
As twilight rose like blue mist above the horizon Thôrglîn[1], whose eyes pierce shadow, cried suddenly aloud.
"I can see the ship! Faint and remote, and strangely fashioned, quite unlike the Grey Ships of Ages past. No ship of Cirdan, that is certain. Yet it comes, but slowly, like a weary bird. White and ragged are the sails."
Curious, the elves turned to one another.
"Which of our kindred comes in such a vessel? Perhaps," said they, "it is the Lady Arwen, returned beyond all hope to Elvenhome. Or perhaps it is some of our Grey brethren, answering the Call at last, for I have heard that their craft is strange."
"Nay," said another voice softly. "It is no elf."
The elves looked down in surprise, recognising the voice of the halfling Frodo, who dwelt ever in sight of the white shore, upon the cliffs, and they wondered that he seemed to know more of the strange boat than they.
"How dost thou know?" asked they. "Canst thou see? Thy sight must have sharpened with the years! Pray tell us then, oh Sharp-Eyes, for our eyes fail." And they laughed, but not unkindly, for one and all held Frodo Ringbearer in high esteem.
The hobbit smiled.
"It is Sam," he said. "As for how I know, I cannot say, for my sight cannot reach as far as yours, as well you know. I see no ship – no sail – as yet. But I have no doubt. It is Sam." And in a low voice he added "…come at last," as though it were a thought meant for himself alone and spoken unaware. He would say no more, but presently he strode forth along the pier, to its easternmost end. And the elves hung back and waited on the beach, moved by something they could not express.
Alone on the pier stood Frodo, as the lights of Varda bloomed in the darkening sky. Behind him, the elves lit lamps, and from the shores and hills came the sound of singing. Then those at the beach saw the Ringbearer draw forth something from his breast and hold it aloft – and behold, from his hand flared a light as white and clear as starlight. And they heard him call forth wordlessly – or perhaps it was a single word, borne away in the wind – and they were amazed. For the light that now shone eastward as a beacon recalled the elven watchers to vivid living memory – a memory of past ages, beauties long-lost, and sundered land and kin.
"Telperion!" some cried, and others "Earendil!" Stirred by the sight of the living light, the elves wept, but smiled as they did so, and reached their hands towards it. And the light from the Phial of Galadriel did not wane, and the hobbit did not let it falter, but held it up for long hours unwavering, as the slow night passed away.
[1] From Sindarin: "eagle-glance"