An entire day.

That’s how long it took for Fëor to climb the Falls of Mithrafëol.

Though the image of him standing victoriously above the valley would have been ideal, the truth was…quite different.

He was prostrated on the ground, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

He eventually flipped over, facing the sky above. The soft pink and orange hue of dawn was now a distant memory as the deep red and purple veil of dusk made way for the stars. It wouldn’t be long before Lua rose in the east, offering light back to Eldás before sharing it with Rëálna through the night.

“This…is going…to take…forever…”

Crawling his way to a nearby stone, he managed to sit and slump as he looked back beyond the falls. A great shadow stretched over the trees below, shrouding them in its cold embrace. The hopeless part of him yearned for it, especially as his eyes continued to wander eastward to where he assumed his home would be.

It was so far away.

The fire driving him towards Ërna was now a wavering flame, the warmth therefrom dwindling in the coolness of his growing despair.

But before the cold could reach his heart, he considered how Ërna must be feeling, alone in a hostile land. While it was true that Fëor never wandered far, Gälenor was still his home. Despite defying the will of the assembly, this land and its people would still welcome him over her. His empathy, the feeling of sorrow beyond his own, helped rekindle his dwindling spirit.

There was something he could still do.

He could get up.

He could go on.

“But first…”

He pulled a pouch off his belt and opened it up, revealing seeds, nuts, and berries that he had been gathering along the way.

“Dinner.”

And naturally, beady eyes watched him as he ate.

“Do spirits like you even eat?” Fëor huffed as he tossed a river-berry to the gylfëa begging him for food.

They didn’t need to eat, of course, but the squirrel-shaped spirit nevertheless felt left out without something to hold. Thus they sat together, munching and mulling things over before beginning the next part of their journey together. That is, until—

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Snap!

Craaaack!

Whip!

—their peace was disturbed by the sound of snapping twigs and bending branches upriver. Fëor jolted, twisting around to look behind him.

Ching, chiiing.

Hoooofffff.

“Eeeasy, boy. Easy.”

Voices?! Fëor thought. So far, he hadn’t run into a single (non-spirit) soul since leaving the assembly—a fact he found…unsettling. Though antisocial by nature, he had still hoped to find people along the way to ask for clues, if nothing else. Comfier shelter would have been nice, too. Night was coming up quickly, after all.

Maybe I can finally get some help…and a proper rest.

The spirit-squirrel squeaked frantically, drawing his attention.

Naive! Fool! Caution!

That’s how he interpreted the behavior, and rightly so. Reprimanding himself for not learning his lesson after Tálnos’ meddling, Fëor frantically looked around for a place to take cover. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

It was a risk, but the best place he could find was a thicket just upriver from where he had been sitting. Despite being in the same direction as the sounds, he spotted a massive, moss-covered trunk sprouting with mushrooms there. It had fallen to its side and smelled like damp earth, but that was a source of comfort for him. Tucking himself inside, he watched through gaps in the wood and foliage to see who (or what) would come.

“They’re watching us, but haven’t made a single move.”

“I know. It’s infuriating.”

“I was prepared to fight, but this? This is exhausting.”

“How many days have we been going now? Ten? Thirteen? I can’t remember.”

“I’d rather they confront us already. How far must we go?”

“Stop complaining.”

Their armor gleamed through the grove as Eldás bestowed Her final blessing for the day—but upon them, marching through Gälenor with sword and spear, Her light seemed fell not fair; for they bore not art nor poetry, but weapons of war and plunder. Hence the hylëa of light was, in fact, distraught as the company before him distorted Her blessing to an ill end.

“Baiting them into ambushing us is secondary. Don’t forget that.”

“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”

It didn’t make sense, but Fëor didn’t bother to understand. His shock and awe was more than enough to occupy him. Whether this troop from Pelría was overly confident or completely insane was, for him, not a concern. The thing bothering him most was…

That one. His aura. It’s…almost like Ërna’s.

Leading the troop with a white horse in tow was an Eldásr more splendid than the rest. He wore silver-blue armor made from a metal that Fëor had no chance of knowing to be cold-iron, a rare ore found only at the peaks of mountains surrounding the Meadow of Mýrás; and indeed, embossed upon his breastplate was Mýrás Herself.

It was his wind that Fëor questioned.

But…why is it so cold?

A chill ran down his spine as he beheld the self-made splendor of that company. How could a troop so fair, bathed in the blessings of light, be foul? Was it not a similar light that opened his eyes to the warmth of the world beyond? Perhaps these folk were like Ërna. Perhaps their wind was only cold from suffering, just as Fëor had himself to make it this far. Perhaps, then, they could be reasoned with. Perhaps they could even help him find Ërna.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps—

Before he knew it, he rose to his feet.

His gylfëa guide vanished.

The wind shifted.

There was no going back now.