[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil:

Aiwendil shuddered and slumped forward as the full force of the wind slammed into the makeshift shelter, the only tiny speck of life amid a vast ocean of twisted sand. The half-tumbled wall of the ancient fortress afforded them some measure of physical protection against the worst of the storm. For long hours, the two men huddled under the dark stones, their faces and bodies encased in blankets looking almost like shrouds.

As the howling lessened, Aiwendil brushed a few grains of sand from his face and peered through a hole in the wrapping, tentatively lifting up one corner of the blanket and raising a hand to shield his eyes fom the stinging particles that still assaulted them. Although the sky was murky, the istar could vaguely make out a wide expanse of sand endlessly churning up and down, an unreal landscape continually changing shape and form. The scene reminded him of something long ago when he'd sailed with a convoy of swan ships to visit the Land of the Star. In the middle of that journey, as they approached the coast of Numenor, an unexpected turbulence had overtaken them, scattering their fleet and hurling sheets of water onto the decks; the tiny vessels had bobbed helplessly up and down. But the violence of the storm was not the only disturbing likeness that was now embedded in his mind. Just as in the past, dark memories reached out from the ancient stones and threw webs of grey shadow over their heads.

As the howling of the winds gradually subsided, Aiwendil stood up and led his camel forward, eager to resume their journey. The younger man reached across to tug at his sleeve and responded with more caution, "Let's wait. We must be sure the storm has really ended. We wouldn't want to be caught in the open again."

Aiwendil scowled but then sat down, displeased with Rôg's decision while still acknowledging that the young man was probably right. Seeing the look of disappointment spread over the old man's face, Rôg leaned over and affectionately placed a hand on his companion's knee, reminding him, "Whoever threatens the camp is as trapped as we are. No one can push ahead in this weather."

"It's not that...., " the istar objected. "Or, at least, that's not the only thing. It is this place. I would see us leave here as soon as we can."

In a tone laced with sadness, the older man attempted to explain, "The fair ones who built this tower were replaced by others. I saw this same thing happen with my own eyes in a distant land across the sea. At first, the evil ones were few. But there were others, many others, who turned their heads away and pretended to see nothing. This fortress was filled with such Men, those who failed to speak or act when darkness threatened their neighbor. Aiwendil rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and stared downward, remembering his own time in Mirkwood. "But these are the ramblings of an old dreamer. I only wish this storm would stop so we could be on our way. We will accomplish nothing sitting here."