"..Beyond all danger and cruelty of the world, Falathlorn was having a serene morning... Battles, fires and the darkness of the enemy were still far away. Goblins were pushed back to their holes long ago. Travellers and free peoples could be able to pass through the great eastern road without harassment. Awakening of evil in the east was a distant rumour, and the black riders were nothing more than a tale for its inhabitants.
Thus the Tûr of the house could afford unguarded sleep in those days. His sword was standing next to him while he slept nevertheless, as the Tûr was of the true Noldor blood. He too could not afford the absence of his dearest companion –the cold steel- no matter how serene the realm was… for Lord Veryacano was he, the guardian and the third reigning master of the house. The Bold as he was known in these days; but in the past he had different names and titles too. What bravery he had not committed in the name of the Noldor? Marched under the banners of Maedhros into the fortress of Himring to defend to the uttermost end; witnessed the falling of many comrades next to him. Rumours tell of him killing until his face and armour were covered with blood for days without rest.
But this had a toll upon his soul, for he has known little rest for the remainder of his life whilst deliberating his actions in the field. The pains of the fallen and incomplete victories of the Banner of the Silmaril made him restless from then on. And in his restless sleep that day, the Tûr was dreaming.
He first noticed himself walking in the wasteland with his sword and shield in hand. Holding his breath for a moment, he tried to understand the environment. A hot gust of wind slapped his face then, forcing him to raise his shield against his face. Then the wind allowed him to lay his gaze unto the field once more. The Tûr then tightened his eyes to see into the distance. It was but a merciless desert as it seemed to him; a desert which has been suffering under the glare of the Sun for many ages. The land was dead, save some creatures struggling here and there… The sun was piercing everything in the open field whoever dares to oppose it’s might. And the sands… One would think that everything would become sand in the future here.
Veryacano moved in his sleep. He dreamed of a moment which ne never seen before. In the cruel desert he felt hope suddenly. For he was the Master of the house still! And one of the few lords of Noldor left in this world, clad in mail and armed with his own sword. Surely it would take more than one desert and many hundreds of enemies to make him succumb. But Hope! He didn’t know why his heart was resting safe and his mind was eager to overcome the burdens of the world this much. But he felt hope. Then why, he noticed a smudge in the distance.
A sandstorm was nearby and the wind was throwing carpets of sand onto him. But the blurred smudge was there, slowly and steadily, it was closing in. The Tûr was then confused because his elven eyes saw a rider in the shade for a moment. With sands touching to his piercing blue eyes, he shielded his hand over his eyes to see. There his mind was alarming as a true warrior, forcing him to stand and be cautious. But his heart was filled with a strange hope. Then Veryacano saw him! It was indeed a lone rider on a chestnut horse. With sun glazing behind the mysterious figure, he too could not see his face. “One of the easterlings!” he thought simply and waited with patience for the rider to come close.
By twenty meters Veryacano looked again at the man. The rider wrapped his face and helmet miserably. His clothes were torn and ripping apart. But as the rider closed by, Veryacano saw a shield on the man’s saddle. Cruel winds wiped the sands off the shield and behold! A White Swan appeared in the midst! Engraved richly on the sky blue shield, Veryacano gasped. Then he only considered the possibility of the man, being a member of the elven folk. The Tûr then shouted boldly:
“-Where to O Noldo!”
Veryacano noticed the man’s face turned to him and he even felt the man’s gasp. He looked around like he was not aware of the Tûr’s presence, as though he had heard something from the void. And then the wind brought a simple reply to Veryacano’s ears in the high language:
“- To the west!”
Then the rider rode ever on, slowly but steadily, passing meters from the Tûr’s spot. Veryacano then realized that he was singing to himself on the horse:
“-To the west,
we who dwell under the stars of Middle-earth,
did not forget the western shores”
Veryacano felt pain in his heart. He knew the song well, for it was very popular in the days of the Fingolfin. And it was not a song that a mere easterling would know. Therefore like a survivor looking at the first glimpse of a forgotten oasis, he looked at the man.
The rider was surely of elven folk. And the Tûr stared at the rider’s departure. His soul was more than exhausted. He shook his head to the sides and looked at his hands.
Then he woke up suddenly, and waited until he gained the total control of his muscles. He was at home, safe and sword was next to him.Veryacano then stood up to walk to the window. For a moment he too enjoyed the beautiful scene from the window, but then he started to think the meaning of a dream. As he was feeling that he must do.
