So there she stood, almost turned into stone, and her eyes, filled with tears, would remind everyone who saw her, that time was not necesarilly the dreadful killer they thought it was. She remembered a young man, a traveller, with a threadbare war suit telling her, “Last time, he was just below Eärendil’s ship”. But it was too late, hope had already begun consuming her insides. “Last time, there was a Ring, and there was less hope than today”.
As he walked away, she saw a glimpse far beyond the Sea. “There is still time, nothing is over yet for me”. She had come to Minas Tirith, twenty years ago, in order to answer the Steward’s hopeless calls to war. There, she met him, and she fell in love instantly, as though she had met him from before, and only Mandos was completely sure about that.
“So, you must be Indil”, he said. “My name is Lindelon”. There had never been a deeper silence full of meaning in Indil’s life, for he was charmed by her beauty. One month later, she had to leave.
“I will wait for you”, she had told him. He could not understand how, in a time that seemed to be perfect, Eastern murderers had to make their show, killing Indil’s family. “Wait for me, in the Ports, I shall come to you, when my soul has been healed”.
“It is not over yet….”