Havens by AdmirableMonster

Flight

Leaving Nan-tathren is not an escape, except perhaps from memories.  Pengolodh is young and fit, and he takes no horse, when there are others who need it more.  His boots are old and worn, but they were made in Gondolin, and he would rather have the blisters than part with them, though he starts regretting this when he steps in a puddle not three hours into the first day’s journey.  He distracts himself by thinking about how he will describe what must be the final journey of the Gondolindrim.

The land has become less harsh as they have moved slowly southwards, like birds seeking a winter home.  Only they do not know what home they seek, and their flight is not towards but away.  Pengolodh sighs, contemplating his wet boot, and tries not to think of what he has left behind in the Echoriad.  (It was not his whole life, he tells himself fiercely.  He has his words, doesn’t he?)

The road winds wearily along before him, and he wonders if their flight will ever end.