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Over rock, over root, downward, downward, and into a broad pool. On the bottom of the pool brown leaves, sunken last year, waved like seaweed from the bottom currents. Overhead the sun was climbing toward the zenith, and the shallow pool glittered in its light.
A current met him; cool, ageless, clean and clear. Her voice was calm, patient. He knew her. Mithrellas. Her presence gave him hope, and refreshed him.
Another current, youthful and gurgling. The child. Her joy in the midst of sorrow was a strength in itself.
Another current: or was it? Was it a current that was yet to be? And how could he sense it, this little river that was yet to come, in the now-flowing waters that eddied round him and flowed through him?
The others in the pool-- Fea. Ghosts, will-o-the-wisps, shades and shadows. He puzzled at them. Glorfindel had been alive in both worlds, this and the wraith or shadow world. These were wraiths only, but not dark; merely grey. Men-folk, on the edge of some journey perhaps, waiting, waiting. Grey and waiting. He wondered, swirling about the shallow pool and mingling with the other currents, where in all of this was his beloved Nimrodel. She could not be far from Mithrellas'; she should be near the spirit of the child. He could not hear her voice; he could not sense her presence. But she had to be here.
He turned to Mithrellas, and waited; her clear, cool agelessness comforted him, as Bella once had with her song. But she did not speak to Amroth, and Amroth wondered; waited, wondered, and watched the grey-brown leaves wafting gently over the silt below.
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