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A gentle breeze blew, rippling the golden hair of a fair being, standing, staring out into space.  He took no notice of this, simply continuing to gaze up at the sky.  The sky was endlessly blue, as far as the eye could see.  There was no movement in the heavens, amongst the clouds, yet the eyes of the fair head remained lifted upward.  Had one looked closer, they may have noticed the unshed tears stinging the lonely eyes of the golden-haired being.  The breeze picked up, and his long hair whipped in the wind accordingly.  What was occurring around him did not concern him; his mind was elsewhere...far, far away, beyond the deep blue sea.

The others had long set out for the Havens.  His kin were gone; Glorisuldal set his fair Elven eyes upon the West; he could almost hear the rush of the sea as it whisked his family and friends away.  His father, Gloraelin ("the golden pool," named for his quite unusual eyes) and his mother, Celedhel ("silver elf") had retreated to the West as well as the rest of his people of Ered Lindon.  Glorisuldal knew there was no hope for him left in Middle-earth; indeed, he could not seek refuge in Valinor, or the Lonely Isle of Tol Eressea.  He knew he had missed his chance to reunite with his kin in the lands reserved for the Sindar and Noldor.  No, Glorisuldal was alone; His trusty sword Angring hung sheathed at his side, a quiver of arrows slung about his back.  Armed with these tools, Glorisuldal needed to find a way out of Middle-earth; perhaps to another realm.  

Why did Glorisuldal not go into the West as the others had?  Deep foreboding lay in his heart about the sea; he did not trust it.  For Glorisuldal was truly an Elf; cursed to live forever and love the earth with everything in him.  He could not bear to leave the earth that had nurtured him for something as uncertain as the sea, and the Blessed Realm.  Who would care for the earth once the Elves left?  Men?  Nay, they care more about survival of their own, rather than their home.  Who would heal the hurts of the world and the innocents?  All these questions reinforced Glorisuldal's decision to stay, though it was a hasty and unwise one.

For the time of the Elves was over...for now.  It was time for the Elves to retreat back to the place of their creation, with their creators, the Ainur and the Maiar.  It was faulty of Glorisuldal to disregard his summons to Valinor.  His family had pleaded desperately for him to change his mind, yet Glorisuldal remained obstinate.  Nothing they could say could make him reconsider.

Not even Elaurarwen, fairest of the Elven-maidens of Ered Lindon.  

Glorisuldal's heart ached for her, the "noble maiden of golden stars."  She implored Glorisuldal to join the Elves in the Havens.  She spoke of many wondrous things in the Havens; endless song, endless life, but most importantly, endless love.  Elaurarwen possessed the golden hair and fair eyes of the Elves, as well as the innate grace, beauty, and light.  But she was so much more than that.

Her quick, bright eyes could read the deepest emotions of his heart.  Her golden hair cascaded down her back.  Ah, but her voice was the most extraordinary quality of all.

All Elves were blessed with the gift of song, but Elaurarwen thrived in it.  Even just speaking, her voice rippled with a graceful tune, smooth and silky as velvet.  But when she sang, it sounded as though a thousand hearts were falling in love; the very stars in the sky seemed to brighten when she lifted her voice in song.  

But not even Elaurarwen's disarming voice could persuade Glorisuldal.  His mind was firm; decision set.  However confident Glorisuldal seemed to the world, his mind was swarming with doubts.  He longed to join Elaurarwen and his kin, but for the warning in his heart.  Indeed, when the longing finally proved stronger than the warning, it was too late.  His chance had fled once it conquered its prey.

The Elves are strange, beautiful creatures.  They are blessed (or cursed) with life immortal.  Elves are the fairest of all beings of all the world.  Their talents abound in many areas: healing, singing, foreseeing, and beauty.  To set eyes upon an Elf is to see all the wonder and beauty of their makers poured into their creation.  Their hair is made of light; their eyes, of water.  Tall and elegant is the Elven frame, lithe and graceful. Elves are blessed with a wise mind and a gentle nature.  Elves rejoice in the earth and its beauty.  Farseeing is the Elven eye, and sharp is the Elven ear.  Concealment is one of the many wonders of the Elves; being swift yet light of foot, Elves can elude many who pursue them.  The Elves' weapon of choice is the bow; sure and straight do their arrows fly.  An Elven arrow never misses its target.  Yet Elves are not hunters; they love the earth and its good creatures far too much.  They have a way with all good animals, for they are gentle and filled with light themselves.  

Elves also possess powerful magic.  Wrought within their being was the magic of the Ainur and the Maiar, the Powers that dwell in Arda.  Elves have incredible healing powers, for it is they who heal the wounded earth.  They can call upon the elements of nature if they are in need of aid.  Dark creatures fear the power of the Elves, for dark always quakes in the light.

Glorisuldal was very much put out; he was still young in Elven eyes, and not ready to take on such a task as leaving the earth he loved so much.  He desperately wished that he could return to the times when he and his kin lived in Ered Lindon, happy and carefree.  He missed the mountains and the trees he knew so well.  His father, Gloraelin, Lord of Ered Lindon, was growing tired of his duties.  Glorisuldal, his oldest child, would soon become Lord of Ered Lindon.  Gloraelin often spoke of going to the Havens, long before it was necessary.  He desired to live amongst his creators, whilst Glorisuldal was content to live in the green Mountains.  Sighing, he scanned the horizon.  He could go to Gondor, Rohan, or even Beleriand, the lands of Men, but Glorisuldal could not bring himself to do so.  How could he live amongst the Apanonar, with life immortal, surrounded by those who would eventually die?  No, Glorisuldal needed to leave the world he and his kin had known since the departure from Arda.  Sighing once more, Glorisuldal set out to find another realm.  Doom filled his heart and doubt, his mind; the task at hand seemed impossible, even to the fair Elf of great magical abilities.

Little did Glorisuldal know that he would find another realm, a realm in which magic coexisted with reality, a realm of wizards and men, a realm known simply as Earth.

A realm, which held certain young wizards and witches whose fates were intertwined with Glorisuldal's.