Thoughts on a Snowy Morn
Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon
1 Coirë in the Reckoning of Imladris
There is a house, a manor rather, sitting upon the banks of the Lhûn: Leben Men Duirro, Torn-en-Aduial. In the Common Tongue, it renders as Number Five Waterbank Road, Hidden-in-the-Twilight. Some time ago, the manor acquired the name Torech Besruth, the Bitch's Lair. To the members of my extended household, it is simply The Lair. To me, it is Home.
A rare event occurred this day in the valley of the Lhûn. An overnight dusting of snowfall has cloaked the ground and the branches of the trees in a thin shroud of white. The slightest puff of warmth rising from a hearth or from one’s breath can be seen drifting through the still airs. The chill air magnifies each sound, whether the light breeze moving through the boughs, the soft rushing of the river, a door opening and closing in the distance, or the sound of bells jingling on a horse’s harness as a rider passes somewhere close by.
I stepped outside briefly to enjoy the dawn’s chill and the silence. There are times when I allow myself to be swept along by the spirited revels of others; other times I take my refuge in the silence of my halls. But this morning even the silence is not silent, rather it is almost companionable. After a brisk stroll across the grounds, I retreated back inside to the warmth and comfort (and coffee) of the salon.
My halls have rung with the sounds of music, laughter, and voices raised in camaraderie. The walls of The Lair have been soaked in joy and contentment, as well as sorrow and strife; I suppose this hodgepodge stew of feeling has made this not a house, but a home as well.
But as I sit gazing into the hearth and clutching a steaming mug, I cannot help but ponder: despite the cold and chill without, I have a place of light and warmth within. If only there was another who might see it...
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