Fëor was…reluctant. His relationship with spirits ran deep, but he still felt slighted after that illusion. He was all the more frustrated upon realizing that, despite dealing with a fake, the encounter hardened his resolve and gave him a crumb of confidence. So, with a silly stomp of stubbornness, he followed the ethereal spirit.

Though fëár are fickle, his decision proved to be wise. Gälenor was, after all, more densely covered in root and vine those days. Even the most experienced travelers expected their journeys from Gälnos to the Meadow of Mýrás to last two weeks, even when following the often-tumultuous Gälnolëa. Fëor was certainly not an experienced traveler. Without a guide, he would probably…be lost forever.

Especially since he had no clue where Ërna went.

To be honest, this whole journey was fraught from the start. He set out on a whim, hardly thinking it through. How in Ánor was he going to find a single Eldásr in such a massive grove? He of all people? Gälenor’s most famous shut-in? It was…kind of stupid.

That said, he had nothing to lose by putting his faith in the winds of fate Herself.

But even with a gylfëa for a guide, it took him six days to travel twenty leagues—a distance most could cover (with the same conditions) in three. For an exhausted Fëor, unaccustomed to sustained physical labor, that alone was an incredible act of mithra. 

Thankfully, those days were quite boring for him; no unsettling illusions haunted him, nor did any strange monsters attack him. He was, after all, still terrified of the world beyond his bubble. What surprised him most of all, though, was the fact that Tálnos never reappeared. After encountering him, Fëor expected the ëolfëánorí to put an end to his insane quest that technically started with betrayal—an end that part of him probably still wished for (were it not for the fear of retribution). 

But it really was strange. How had he gone so far without anyone stopping him? Were the grove’s sentries too busy looking westward, letting him wander freely unbeknown to all, save Tálnos? Or was this the same strange luck that let Ërna reach him in his distant glade?

Regardless of those lingering concerns, however, he still reached the Falls of Mithrafëol without fail.

He had no clue just how special that place was.

There the Gälnolëa, flowing eastward from the roots of Mýrás, cascaded down a rocky slope in a stunning display. Naturally, he was enamored by its beauty. Especially at dawn, the fëol-rich waters sparkled with golden glimmers as it leapt from stone to stream. Bears and salmon gathered there (though admittedly not on the best of terms) while a vast array of flowering herbs thrived in every crevice that was blessed by the life-giving spray.

Naturally, he was enamored by its beauty. The soft light of dawn illuminated the falls, which in turn veiled the surrounding grove in a mist of gold, pink, and glimmering green. The beauty he did not see, however, was deep beneath his feet; for here the roots of Mýrás and Gälnos mingled, bringing west and east together as one.

Were it not for the fact that his journey was about to get much, much more difficult because of it, Fëor would have considered it paradise. (It was also too far from home.) Instead, it would become his first test from Ëolna; for here the land rose steeply, then gradually, as the valley rose to meet the lofty Meadow of Mýrás further west. In other words…the next 50-or-so leagues were all uphill.

Fëor sighed deeply, realizing he had to climb now. 

“No way…”

He side-eyed his spirit-squirrel guide, who scurried effortlessly up the rocky falls. 

“Are you serious?”

Had Ërna really gone this way?