Vinyalonde

Shafts of sunlight slant through the canopy above, winking in and out as the wind stirs the leaves into new patterns. The wood is filled with light: it glances off the rippling water to either side, casting glimmering reflections back across the surface. Somewhere among the trees a bird sings, undisturbed by the silent movements of the sentries I know patrol nearby. But for them, this land would almost seem untouched by the troubles outside its borders. There is peace here – yet all are aware that it is hard-fought, and hard-won.

I stand on the edge of the circle of firelight, looking out into the night. The hunter has already left, vanishing into the gloom, and as Lady Athlidhrael turns back to the gathering behind us there is a moment when the whole night seems to stretch emptily before me. The slight breeze lifts my hair, sending strands of it dancing across my face. Without the encircling mountains of Rivendell, the carpet of stars above seems almost endless. I remember previous journeys here: riding at night, moving like a shadow among these mournful lands.

The leather grip is wearing away under my hand. I shift my grip slightly, making a note to see about getting the wrap replaced before we leave. I stand motionless for a moment, closing my eyes and recalling darkness and stone, shouts, and learned responses. Then I begin to move.

 The rain on my face feels like tears. Drops splash onto the surface of the lake, making the ripples dance, and patter through the leaves of the trees. I pull my legs up to my chest and sit huddled in my cloak, heedless of the wet ground, or of the mud staining my bare feet. Even now the words of Lord Anglachelm ring in my mind as though etched there permanently. The view is beautiful – shading in grey, the rain gives the lake a bleak, haunted look. It is a fitting setting for the ghosts I bring with me.

 The second time we met, we spoke of freedom. In the grand halls of his kin, once most of the guests had left, he showed me the wonders they'd collected. Among the treasures there was a small songbird in a cage – something meant to lighten a room I suppose, or bring joy to those within. I wondered how they could bear to confine something so sweet – to deprive it of room to fly and yet still expect it to bring them joy.

The road stretches out before me, dipping between high sides of rocks before it turns the corner and peters out in the open moors. The sun warms the earth under my feet, and a soft breeze blows, shaking the tops of the firs as it passes, although the trees of the valley at my back remain still – sheltered by the mountains that surround. I tilt my face up to the sky for a moment, shutting my eyes and relishing the touch of the sun.

 Far above, the stars shine – tiny pinpricks of light in the silent night. I take a deep breath, savouring the freshness of the air. The silence is broken only by a soft breeze that stirs the leaves above me, whispering through the trees. It is a welcome moment of peace – I am overjoyed to be among my friends once more, but still I find myself seeking moments of solitude and quiet: moments in which to reflect on all that has happened.

 I shudder slightly as I put my hand to the wall, leaning on it for the briefest moment. There are thick, clinging cobwebs everywhere in this part of the caves, and what little rock is free of them is often covered in lurid growths of fungus. I stand completely still, listening to the ominous sounds of movement echoing in the caves around me, taking in my surroundings. I have been here before, I am sure of that now. Despair wells up again, but I force it down, force myself to start moving once more, walking forwards in what appears to be a never-ending circle.

 We sit, crouched in the dark like mice. Waiting. By my side, the dwarves whisper to one another, talking of casual things, as if by doing so they can briefly forget what is to come. Their voices, multiplied and blurred by echoes, sound like the wind in the trees. Yet there is no wind – the air hangs as still and heavy as if it too is waiting. Somewhere ahead of us, they are moving – the occasional shout carries to us through the stillness. As the sounds grow more frequent silence takes over. The dwarves stop talking, stop moving even.

 It is dark here. Though the caves seem tall enough to encompass a world, there is no sun in this world. There are no stars. The only light comes from the flickering torches of the dwarves, the eerie glow of some strange crystal, or the fires that scorch the rocks in the depths. In the dark, terrible things lurk, and the glow of torches cannot push back the shadows entirely.