A Ghost Story.

Written in answer to the now defunct "Tower of Echthelion" 'Quoth the Enir Evermore' Hallowe'en challenge.

Each year at this time I have sought them.  While my brother the lore-master lies abed I alone have ventured forth, to seek the truth in old tales.

They call to me – their silences, fretful and weary, echo just beyond hearing.  But I know their songs.  Do not their losses and longings lay upon my shoulders all the year ‘round?

Yet ever they have eluded me.  Before now.

Now, with eyes newly opened I see.  Embodied by myth and memory, star-silvered and shadow black, they take their places, numinous and fleeting as clouds before the moon.

Standing the Embrasure, here is ancient Denethor, mourning Osgiliath in her watery grave; while close behind him comes his son, my name’s-sake, limping withered and twisted from a devilled blade.  And to the North stands Cirion, listening, ever listening for the hope of golden horns; in opposition Beren paces, swathed in furs and trembling for the sight of black sails.  Alone and quiet beneath the failed tree is Belecthor, sifting petals in hollow hands.

Now I recognize them.  Now I see their fearful hearts transparent.  Now I take my place among them, arrows protruding from an empty breast, cloven horn voiceless at my hip.

Now I have come home.