Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon
8 Coirë in the Reckoning of Imladris
The weather has deteriorated, with another winter storm settling over the valley of the Lhûn. This time it is not simply the gentle snowfall and picturesque morning; ice has come to coat the land in an impenetrable sheet of glass. The wan sun which peeks through the ragged high clouds brings light, but little warmth to the crystal scene outside The Lair.
I attempted a morning walk to view the landscape once again, only to find the going treacherous and annoyingly slow. Using a staff with a steel tip I was able to walk, albeit slowly, around the grounds to view what the storm left in its passing. What met my eyes was a blinding white and gleaming land; not the pretty rimed glistening of the last days, but a harsh brightness from tree and lawn which blasts the eyes with intense pale fire. Whole limbs have cracked from the weight of the ice, and now hang twisted against the ground. All the pathways are paved over with a bluish-white carapace of ice, perilous to walk upon unaided.
The waters of Torn-en-Aduial, from the twin falls even to the banks of the river, are now encased in a mantle of ice thick enough to walk upon. The torrents descending from the heights above can still be heard, a muted flow discernable beneath the frozen surface. When I reached the banks of the river, I could see that even the flow of the Lhûn could not escape the storm's grip; along either bank stretches a ribbon of ice not reaching across the stream, but shrouding the banks and part of the waters in its frigid grip. Large floating chunks of ice can be seen drifting along in the current, winter's debris meandering with the river's course.
As I walked, I could see signs of habitation in many other places dotted around the valley, fumes curling gently in the still air from myriad chimneys and vents. I forsook any further walking and retreated to the warmth and shelter of The Lair. The twin hearths and mighty furnace of the Grand Hall ensure a comfortable place; but the labors of keeping it are mine and mine alone. Of course, there are foresters of the valley who made rounds of the homes here in Falathlorn, bringing supplies of wood and fuel to meet the needs of those who dwell here, so I am spared that heavy labor. But tending the fires falls to me.
My extended household, my friends, are scattered abroad in many places. Lancogard and Applecider, my dear halflings, are on errand in the Shire for their little land's safety. The friends Olriandis and Nelfahir, adventurous and restless Elves, are far afield. The enigmatic Boghadair has only been seen in passing, his sad wandering paused to share tidings and brief hospitality before departing once more into the wild. I have especially missed any tidings from Hartagil these past weeks - not even so much as a falcon's feather has touched the ground signaling a message from her, my sister in all but blood.
Indeed, few messages have come to me because of this weather. Sûlpadron could not fly for weariness and the storm's icy wrath. The Lair has become not a sanctuary but a prison-house, enduring the cold silence of the land and the emptiness of the halls. As I examine my own self, I see that the bitterness of the past few months has burned away, leaving only a bitter bed of ash that gives no warmth or light. I confess to thinking that perhaps I am ready to love and be loved again; but for the present, I would simply be content with visitors, or at least news from those I hold closer than passing names.
I am ice-bound in my own house; I hope my heart is not the same. Will spring never come?
Next Entry: Fire on the River
