[Firefoot]

“Is that how it was with you? Even in a place of great beauty, too much time remembering ghosts and trying to reconcile our arrogance with its outcomes?”

Lómwë nodded slightly. “Something like that. Originally, I had thought Lórien to be a haven, an escape, from everything that had happened, thought I could make myself belong there. For the longest time, all I wanted was to forget, not that I could. I doubt anyone could. Memories came back, in the time I had to think in Lórien. I realized that I didn’t really want to forget – at least, not all of it. We had something back then, something that it seems we have lost. When we set out from Tirion, everything was fresh, and we were full of fire, ready to face the world. Then we saw too much, did too much, and brought on our own sorrows. But in spite of the sorrows, there were valiant and brave deeds done, then, and ever there was hope. But all that seems gone, now. Sometimes I wonder whether if we had done things differently, that old fire might still be there, but the sorrows, not.”

Lómwë picked up a long stick and prodded some charred ash that had tumbled free of their campfire. “Like these ashes… nothing but cold remnants of the blazing fire.” He prodded them through a gap in the ring of stones around the fire, nearer to the flames. The ash glowed red for a moment, then died back to the cool gray. With a sigh, Lómwë tossed the stick onto the fire as well.

Their conversation was stopped as Lómwë noticed Malris and Tasa approaching. While Tasa might understand, he somewhat doubted that Malris would. The two sat down, and some casual comments exchanged: about the storm, about the fish Lindir and Orëmir might be catching. Soon the four lapsed into silence, Lómwë still musing on his and Endamir’s conversation.