The earth was silver, shadowed in fog beneath him. Gwaihir was untroubled. His golden eyes saw far enough. Wind sifted through the shafts of his feathers. Below him, great green pines loomed, dark scratches against the grey, far below his aerie. Here, he was strong, looking out, far-seeing. He was the Wind-Lord, crowned with a golden band about his brow. Here, he could see much. And he could see the stretch of the land, rolling on as if forever. Silver-grey and pierced with trees. Bears, wolves, squirrels. Many things lived beneath those trees. He had seen it. Many things moved and breathed and lived. The snow bound them. The land rested. All was quiet, in the silver morning. All was still.
Gwaihir spread his wings, and silently, he leapt.