Thalya and I had a discussion the other day. A discussion about what must be done in my life. About how I’ve reached a point from which I need to make a decision, a Choice, and go back to my homeland.
I agreed to return to Lórien, to have a temporary homecoming and visit. Yet again I delay making this Choice I know I must make, the decisions I must make regarding my course in life. Visiting my home is something to which I acquiesce, with reservations.
When I went away with Thalya to Rivendell, my mind and heart were heavy with guilt and remorse for disappearing. Laying on a silvery bench watching the waterfalls and cascades of sweet smelling flowers reminded me of home. It gave me a pang of homesickness, with which I tried to conceal my heartache and guilt and wondered if I would ever return to where I’d been.
Thalya speaks to me often of these things I am meant to do, of the orders of Círdan, the orders of Elrond… And we are drawn into ever more evil, more darkness. My golden, glowing home in the trees never sounded so good as when she and I were hiding in a rocky outpost in Angmar, the sky cracked, glowing a sickly shade blood, the ground burnt and dry underfoot. Or during an assault on Carn Dum when I was nearly killed by unspeakable horrors in the very bowels of a dungeon, cave, tunnel… I don’t even know what to call it. Every one is more horrific than the last. The evil is tangible, and I yet feel the shadow of Angmar upon my soul.
I’m coming home. I’m coming home. It feels strange to write it.