Shrouded by wind rider

Shrouded

Shrouded

It is yet early in the morning, and mists are still hanging over the landscape, hiding most of it from view. Birds have begun to awaken though, and their bodiless twittering in the dense fog sounds eerie.

I like it. I like this place, as gloomsome and so near to the Enemy’s stronghold as it is. It is so vast compared to my homeland, and there is no lake in Gondolin anyway. I like sitting by the lake and listening to the soft shushing of its waves against the muddy shore, and I am doing just that now. The Sun will not be making an appearance for a long time still, but I do not need her light to enjoy the lake, all the same. My hooded cloak is sufficient enough to ward me from the dampness and slight chill of the fog.

Today may mark my last visit here, and I wish to enjoy it to the fullest. Early tomorrow I am going to depart to the seashores in search of Círdan with my little cousin, having promised to Lord Fingon that I shall deliver his only son to him, away from the main focus of the ongoing war. Tomorrow every moment of invisibility will count, since we will depend on secrecy to reach the Falathrim unhindered, and that may mean going even before the birds begin to sing. No more long moments spent contemplating the lake; no time.

I hate secrecy. But unfortunately, nearly all aspects in my life is wrought with it, from the existence of my homeland to the relatives I have just found in this place in the form of Ereinion and his father.

Trying to elude more of the dark thoughts, I inhale slowly and deeply, savouring each smell that my nose deciphers, even the damp, cold fog that makes me want to choke and cough. Rich water, Mud, algae, water plants, fish, fog, damp rocks, damp earth…

“Eros?” a small voice peeps from the vicinity of my midriff, hidden beneath my cloak. I hum absently in acknowledgement. (Asking Ereinion to call me by my proper name was a brief and sorely-lost battle.)

To my astonishment, however, my cousin does not elaborate. He usually enjoys talking so much, sometimes to the point of headache for me and his father. The absence of his chatter is a cause for alarm.

“Cousin?” I call softly into the folds of my cloak. “Are you well? Too cold?”

Ereinion’s small form and lighter weight shifts in my lap, burying himself deeper in my arms. “Is there any lake in Eglarest or Brithombar?” he asks in an even smaller voice.

I sigh. “No, Cousin. I told you so. They are harbours, which mean that they are by the sea. We are going to see Círdan in either place.”

“I love lakes, big lakes.” His tone is plaintive now. I hum in agreement.

“I love this lake,” he confesses at last, and my heart squeezes with empathy.

“So do I.”