Disclaimer: Tolkien made this world, Kortirion made this drabble.
Sometimes, she went to Mirrormere in her reveries; it was long years since she’d stood above that lake, watched the stars in its depths. Those visits had become circumspect, only possible by secret paths where the Celebrant surged cold and clear down to the Anduin.
In memory’s flights she’d visit other lakes… northern Mithrim, marshy Linaewan, the long trek to explore Dorwinion’s vineyards and the Sea of Rhûn.
Time was, Arda had been her plaything... oh travelling was never easy, but... possible. Now... sometimes she felt trapped, becalmed on a golden lake, seeing every shore, but able to touch none.