It has been a few weeks since my arrival in Imladris and Badhor has rested well. I have internally debated seeking out the elves of Vanimar, in the hopes to learn more of the sort of life my father lived in Gondolin. Perhaps one of them knew him as a child? And yet...I cannot bring myself to ask. I have so many questions. The pain of loosing Gondolin was a great one to the elves. But one cannot simply ask of such things to people who may yet still grieve. I would grieve just as long were fair Lothlorien burned.
Father would tell many tales of every day life...the market stalls. But I know next to nothing of what the place felt like. The alleys he played in as a child or the favorite places of summer everyone has in their own way. I know about Gondolin, but I do not know how the city was home. This, I believe was one of the most precious things in the world to him. This feeling. This feeling of being hopelessly in love with your home. It speaks to the heart in the way words cannot.
The smell of the Mallorn leaves after fresh rainfall, the creak and groan of flets and boughs and fresh cut hay for the horses. Watching Arnor share her warmth through the boughs in the day and climbing high, high into the canopy to look overhead the trees as far as eyes can see. That first peek at sunrise looking into a sea of gold leaves amid the morning's yellow gold, the trees singing and the wind rustling the leaves. A sound and sight I could never forget in a hundred years. Lothlorien is my home, and even should wounds bear me to sail I will always love Lothlorien with all of my heart. No. I cannot ask. It is better to let such things be left alone....Perhaps...Gondolin felt the same as Lothlorien. Heartwarming and safe. Home.
