Warnings: Possibly a hint of distressing imagery.
Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien and I make no money from this.
Against the Tide
Fleeing Doriath’s midwinter ruin, the Sirion was a torrent: snow-swollen, choked with the dead. Southwards it bore the bleeding survivors to the sea. Amid the foaming mouths their camp was made, a scattering of Thingol’s people and those who had followed Dior. And there they remained.
It was autumn and the Sirion was torrential again when a flood of refugees came south down the river’s bronze-edged bank. Beneath Nan-Tathren’s willows they had shed their grief; now they sang the glories of shattered Gondolin.
The Gondolindrim planned to settle there. Wandering the torrent’s shore, Erestor stared northwards, dreaming of ruins abandoned.