Wind Song by Erulisse

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sandbox, I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me.  No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

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Wind Song

I love playing here, swirling around the corners, through the open doorways, and across the ruined porticos. Stopping for a moment in a sheltered corner I turn, and, twisting, I pull dust up through my airy fingers and shower it back upon the weeds that are all that grow here now. I remember….

I remember this city, this sheltered refuge, this shining commemoration of what had been left behind in the Far West. I remember the people - bright, colorful, jocular, sharing their laughter and their tears with me. I remember the children, their smiles as bright as the flowers that lined the causeways and hung down from the windows. I had kissed the cheeks of the maidens, fluffed the feathers and horsehair embellishments of the warriors, and dried the tears of the widows and orphans. I had brought the rains of summer, the snows of winter, and I had moved the clouds over the farm fields and pastures of the valley.

Now I wander through the ruins that remain. The burnt and broken stonework lays beneath my breath, the treasures of the refugees and the remains of those who died here are scattered among the jagged edges of the roadways and the walls of destroyed houses. Interspersed with broken plates, scattered pieces of colored glass, jewels, and golden beads are the blackened bones of the people - men, women and children - and the ragged banners of the warriors. The towers were toppled, the fountains were torn apart, silent forevermore, and the life that was once so vibrant and musical no longer echoes across the paving stones. Silence rules this land of sorrow.

The eagles have moved their aeries to other mountaintops, the bees have new hives, and the birds have built nests east of the Ered Luin. No people remain to harvest the remnants of the grapes that once produced the deep red and brilliant white wines so beloved by the King. All residents of this valley have now left, only I remain, moving through the city one last time, caressing the courtyards and stroking the remaining steps, but a few minutes ahead of the waves that follow me.

I finish gusting and tumbling my way through this graveyard of elven hope, and then I rise, watching the waters crash through the mountainous shield-wall at the behest of the Valar. The dead will be buried with honor under the waters, and the memories of Gondolin will remain through their stories and songs for as long as Elves remain on Arda. Yet, I will miss this fair city and its inhabitants.

 

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Chapter End Notes

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