Heat Wave in the City of the Moon by Himring

Heat Wave in the City of the Moon

Read Heat Wave in the City of the Moon

Last night, finally, the rain came.

I had spent the sweltering hours of the day prostrate in my rooms. The coolness of the rain revived me. I went out into the dark garden wearing nothing but my shift. There was nobody to see. If there were few practical tasks I could do either, in the dark, I could still sense the earth and the plants soaking up much-needed moisture all around me. When I came back in, after a while, I had to change, for my shift was drenched.

It is surely too early in the year to be this hot. It is only the month of Lotesse. Some of my elders are saying we must not expect the climate in these lands to be as temperate and hospitable as Numenor was. I suppose they are speaking of earlier Numenor, for I do not remember that land as being temperate or hospitable in the last years before it sank under the sea. And I am not sure they are right about the weather of Middle-earth, anyway: the people who have lived here for longer are shaking their heads and are saying they do not remember such heat as early as this, ever. I suppose they could be exaggerating—they are farmers and such and keep few written records—but I suspect they are not.

It is certainly bad for the crops. And it does my health no favours, either. There is a rumour in my family that we have a bit of Druedain blood and some have speculated that it has come out in me. A look in the mirror suggests it could be true, but I do not think it is the reason I am old before my time. My mother and I spent months in a root cellar, hiding from the Zigur’s troops, before the Fall. She was barely able to feed me enough to keep me alive; my growth and health have suffered ever since.

I wonder what the true Druedain would have to say about the unseasonable heat; it seems the sort of thing they might know. I have heard that they still live here, in woods and mountains to the west. When I was stronger, I toyed with the idea of travelling to see them. But what could we have had to say to each other, really? The Druedain left Numenor so long ago, it was rarely remembered they had ever been there! They could see disaster even looming so many centuries ahead, it is said, now.

I will be sad to leave Minas Ithil. I had come to love its moon-white walls, the flowering meadows by the stream. However, increasingly, I have become convinced I would do better in the sea air. And I am beginning to feel that there is something oppressive about those mountains. Ephel Duath they are called and their shadow is falling over my mind, even in my dreams.

It is decided. As soon as I can arrange it, I shall depart and travel in easy stages down the Anduin to Pelargir.