Mirkwood

The place was strange, eerie. The sun was just rising, a hint of light coming from just beyond the horizon. The sky, where it was visible through the branches, was a deep blue. Slowly spring was turning into summer.

“I have started to dance again,” she says in a gentle tongue, speaking over her knees where they sit drawn close to her chest. Dead and dry leaves crack into brittle pieces as she shifts her weight upon the ground, waiting for an answer that will not come. It has never come. With a sigh, she reaches down and picks up one of the russet leaves to hold in her hand. She turns it over, examining the spots where the bright red has turned an ugly shade of brown.

The scrape of metal against the stone floors of Felegoth leaves a shrieking sound in its wake. It draws the attention of all those who watch the sorrowful march of the younger sister through the halls. The rhythmic clink of the steel against the steps is the beat to which she sets her footfalls, trudging through the long halls of wood, and stone, and eyes that look on in silent pity. Pitiable is she that walks alone now.

Gentle rain along the treetops - it drips down in a cascade. It slips from leaf, to branch, to trunk, to root. It sweeps away dirt and ash. It settles at the floor of the forest; within its wetness pools rot and timber, and leaves that sit gently across the top, and that wait to be swept up again by the wind once more. The rain covers the forest in a misty haze, blurring the outlines of figures and trees. One would not be able to see past the depth of their own fingertips.