Simindâr — 1301 — Midsummer — Morning
(Some days later.)
I cannot recall the count of days.
Time passes differently here, they say. I do not think that this is true, at least, not in any measurable sense. Say that there is something about time itself, rather than its passage, that sets this land apart.
For all the times I have crossed the border between Simindâr and the lands of humankind, I had never noticed this difference until now.
Whatever it is, I am not sure how long ago I came here, nor how many days have passed. I have not come upon any settlement. Not that they would be able to tell me these things if I asked.
In fact, I suspect that Simindâr herself is misdirecting me.
I set in my mind where I wish to go. Always in the past a path would lead me there. It might not be a straight path, nor even direct, but I never mistrusted it.
Now I lose my sense of where I am, and the direction of my travel. Instead of the clarity of sight and thought that is usual when my mind and this place are aligned, I feel only a vague presence, like a morning fog on the sea.
And yet.
I have no doubt at all that there is some deliberate purpose behind this. I wonder whose it could be? That of Simindâr...or of her inhabitants?
And why does the latter of these frighten me more?