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B2MeM 2011: Haradhrim Nights  by Mirach

Day 8:

Challenge – Dorthonion: Write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork reflecting identification with or connection to one's land, country or culture. Or write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork featuring kilts.


Green Memories

One foot before the other. Again. And again. Steadily, patiently. Thorongil walked through the desert.

The pale dawn coloured the dunes to all shades of pink. Soon the sun will rise, and change the sand to a glowing forge.

Once in a while he looked behind, to see if someone is following him, but he could see only sand and his own uneven tracks – the cut almost stopped bleeding by now, but still he was limping to relieve the injured leg. It was not even a blade that caused the wound, but the broken glass of a window that he used to escape – there must be some irony in that, he thought, but soon the blinding rays of sun pierced all thoughts.

He shielded his eyes, and could see the green spots under his eyelids that the sun imprinted there. Green, the colour he missed most. Oh, how he missed it, and the distant northern lands of his home – the green lands…

The grassy hills, soft under the feet of a wanderer. The scent of meadow flowers in the sun, warm but gentle like the linden trees purring in the lazy afternoon with the voices of bees.

The hot, merciless sun ascended over the desert - a sovereign ruler on a golden throne, demanding everything to bow to her will.

The cool shade of woods, the green silence under the branches of mighty trees. The wet moss and rotting wood – the rich and earthy scent of the forest secrets.

Dry and parched soil. Bleached bones. And sand - sand everywhere. It was in his boots, in his hair, under the piece of cloth that he used to bandage the cut…

The sound of water… The merry sprinkle of a spring rain. The broad and calm river, singing softly to the willows that bath their branches in her waters. The proud storm over the mountaintops. The many-voiced choir of the waterfalls in Rivendell…

He took a gulp from the water skin. The water was warm, but he knew its price here. Often it was the price of life… He drank just a little to moisten his parched lips, hoping the water will be enough to reach the nearest settlement. The desert was unforgiving…

The mountains, towering proudly over the land. The wild and dangerous beauty… Rays of sun flowering on the hillsides, the grey twilight falling into the gnarly embrace of old pines. The wind playing the pipes of the sharp rocks, and air near the snow-covered mountaintops – so clear and crisp, fresh as if no living being has breathed it yet…Cruel, too. The weather changing from one hour to another, the merciless winds and dangerous passes. As cruel and unforgiving as the desert…

He looked around again, and suddenly a little smile appeared on his lips. He could understand the people living here, the beauty of the desert. It was much like the beauty of the mountains. The raw power of the sun, the ever-changing shapes of dunes - a reminder of how unstable is everything in this land, and yet beautiful in the perishableness. He could understand the hot beauty of the South, but his hearth belonged to the green North.

He walked, a little dot in the desert, while in the sky the sun neared her zenith.





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