The sun hung low in the sky when the two riders sighted the grey spires of Mithlond rising above the Bay of Lhûn. As they drew closer to the Grey Havens, the call of the gulls wheeling above the quays grew louder and more insistent. Cúrandir watched in silent wonder as the great stone ramparts of the city rose up before them. At the gate, an arch carven with the likenesses of blooming flowers and foaming waves, a guard stopped them and Falasgil dismounted, speaking with him in an undertone. Cúrandir hung back, still gazing at the city in awe.
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