The Elves, once regarded by humans as minor gods, gather in a circle beneath a colossal oak whose roots touch hidden springs. Their luminous forms flicker like starlight, their eyes reflecting both joy and longing. Magic pulses through the clearing, shaping the air with music unseen. Here, the first whispers of change ripple through the assembly, as a call from the far west beckons their leaders to speak of Aman—a continent cloaked in legend, lying beyond mortal reach.
Among the throng, two figures stand at the center: Elarion, wise and serene, and Myrithil, fierce and proud. Elarion turns to the gathered Elves, his voice resonant with hope. "The Valar invite us to dwell in Aman, a land beyond sorrow and shadow. Who among us will journey west and live in everlasting light?" Myrithil glances at the horizon, her expression somber, the weight of choice pressing upon her.
"Why must we abandon the land of our birth?" Myrithil asks, her fingers trailing in the cool water. Elarion gently clasps her hand, his features etched with sorrow. "Sometimes, to embrace the future, we must leave behind what we cherish most. But we are kin, now and always." Their words linger as groups form: those bound for Aman—the Light Elves—and those who remain, their hearts shadowed by uncertainty.
The Light Elves, now called Ljósálfar, thrive in peace, their faces aglow beneath the open sky. They practice magic in sunlit courts, their laughter ringing clear. Far away, the Dark Elves—Dökkálfar—grow more guarded, their eyes keen in the gloom. They shape obsidian halls and guard ancient secrets, their distrust of outsiders sharpening with each passing generation.
Little Sivrin, a master toy-maker, polishes a wooden train, humming a tune only Elves know. "Every child deserves a bit of magic on winter's night," Sivrin whispers, vanishing from sight as he places the toy on the sleigh. Around him, his kin move unseen, their laughter mingling with the jingle of bells and the northern wind.
A solitary human child, Lina, wanders into a moonlit grove, her eyes wide with wonder. She brushes her hand over a silver leaf, half-believing she sees a luminous figure flit between the trees. "Are you still out there?" she asks the silence, her voice a fragile thread in the ancient night. Somewhere in the Dreamlands and the far West, the Elves remember, too.
