Haldaer, Known as the Isilohtar, Returns to Imladris

The slow fall of the sun into the west. The vale basks in the firery glow of evening. Astride a majestic steed, swaying in harmony to the graceful gait, sits an elf lord. Adorned in armour the like of which is rare. Even among the eldar. For it comes from a time and a land now buried beneath the sea. His return to Imladris, long delayed by the testing of his spirit, was now come. 

Haldaer murmurs in a sonorous whisper. "Almarë." There he had stood. Knees in the sea, covered in the sand of the most western shore of Arda. Staring out over the vast distance that separates her from him. He can almost see her. There, upon a beach in Aman, holding her arms open to him. Beckoning. He could feel his heart rip from his chest, as it did on this annual pilgrimage. To the one place not of dreams he could feel closest to her. This ceremony of affirmation. To proving of his word. The oath and at what cost he kept it. To depart not until Arda was liberated from the Shadow or to the halls of Mandos he was sent. 

No trace of the despair or grief that had so openly brought him to weeping then could be seen in his stoic gaze. Here was the Isilohtar, the Moon Warrior of the first age. He who was also Ialear. The Blood song, of Eregion. Renewed with purpose and ready to see the end of the Enemy.