An arc of lightning flashes across what little sky is visible, a rolling boom of thunder following only a second later. Hudded beneath the meager protection of this small copse of trees, Amathan burrows deeper into his cloak. It is a good cloak, thick and brown and oiled to keep off water, but even the best of cloaks cannot resist rain forever, and he is as sopping wet as the rest of his camp.
He stares glumly into the neat ring of stones he had built earlier, before the flash-storm came down with ferocity he had never seen in Gondor. This northern land is harsh, and even with the wondor and awe he is finding himself unexpectedly homesick lately. Another roll of thunder sounds overhead and the rains beats a rhythmic song all around.
He leans back against the rough bark of an oak tree, and thinks that perhaps he should be sleeping. The stormy skies and wind blow all around, though, kicking up his thoughts like so many leaves scattered upon the sodden grass. In Gondor, perhaps, the trees would not have fully turned yet, still green and bright upon their branches as children ran wild and laughing underneath. The land had been safe, then, for the young to roam at will, but when he had left, things had already greatly changed, and perhaps they have changed further still in his absence.
Nearly five weeks have passed since he crossed the Mering stream out of Gondor, and twenty-three days since his crossing of the Isen. The North-South road has taken him far into the wilds of Dunland and Minhiriath, that which had been Cardolan in the days of old. Relentlessly has he tread this path, ever northwards and ever deeper into the looping, narrow script of decade-old letters, recounting the lands he sees now with each passing hour.
If it were drier perhaps, and he a little more tired, he would reach now for the crackling paper folded in his tunic pocket and trace once more the faded words. The letters are short and rambling, their author unaccustomed to the writing of such, but there are many of them. He would write three, sometimes four letters in the course of a week, always jotting down one more off-topic anecdote and small adventure on the wayside, jamming them into the same package to send southwards back along the worn roads before starting a new one only the next day. The last one, at the bottom of the stack, is the shortest of the lot, and as impersonal as Amathan has ever heard his brother be.
I do not believe I will be writing for a while... I have found my errand's end, and though I cannot commit it here to paper I hope you know...
It is all in the same vein, succinct but not at all to the point, and it is the mystery and grief left in that letter--- the last that had ever come down the road to their home--- that Amathan chases now northward. Years old is the trail he follows, but he does not plan to turn from it.
All around him, the rain and wind and thunder continue their wordless song.
