For who, finding themselves imprisoned, would not wish to escape? by Himring

For who, finding themselves imprisoned, would not wish to escape?

Finally alone in her window seat, Miriel took a breath and opened the book, as a woman parched with thirst might uncover a well or, emerging from a cavern, might peer out at the stars. Even in these last days, when her soul was a desert and nothing was easier than seeing death, the book still offered refreshment. Today, she did not even read, merely held it open and allowed the dear words to rise up toward her from the page.

No prayers or hymns, nothing to do with Valar or Elves, nothing at all to see for the censors’ suspicious eyes. Merely a few lines about a leaf, a drop of rain…

In the blackness of the night, Miriel, who had lain listening to the sound of rolling thunder for hours, rose like a sleep-walker, wrapped the book in waxed cloth and enclosed it in a box made of cork wood. Then she lay down again.

When the Land of Gift was submerged in the waters and sank, the book floated, like a crumb of joy cast upon the waves, until it came ashore in Umbar where a girl found it washed up on the beach.

But hers is another story.

Chapter End Notes

The piece touches on other LLA prompts that year, in particular on an excerpt from "A Soliloquy for Cassandra" by Wislawa Szymborska.

(On looking more closely at the picture of Annalú Boeretto's sculpture in greater resolution later, I found that I had overlooked frozen or petrified butterflies. If I had seen them, my response to the image might perhaps have been different.)