Eliriael

This is written on two sheets of neatly folded parchment, sealed with a drop of brown wax imprinted with the head of an arrow on it. The handwriting is neat and precise, not in the slightest ornamental, though in some places it loses its crisp shape as if the writer's hand was fatigued. On the outside of the parchment is written the name of Lord Dolthafaer, to whom it is addressed.

To Lord Dolthafaer of the Order of the Arrow, Bar-en-Vanimar

Tancamir sat crouched with his back to the wall of the ruin, fire crackling in the distance. Before him lay a worn but clean piece of parchment, as well as a battered leather-bound journal covered in scrawling notes. He sighed.

Green blades of grass caressed the elleth's bare feet as she walked across the clearing before swaying back into their upright stance as if no one had passed by. The mellyrn leaves high above in the canopy changed the lighting of the forest floor and illuminated the strains of gold in her hair. For once, it was not held up close to her ears with tiny jeweled pins and ornaments. Only starry white flowers graced the crown of her head, as her long tresses freely cascaded down her back.

She had been planning to go rejoin her old patrol for this, their final night in the forest. She knew they were still near enough to reach, to the North of their planned stop - Erion's failed attempt at a signal had told her as much, and she'd appreciated their careful eyes keeping watch over her progress, as she led the healers back to Echad Sirion. The paths they'd told her about made the journey entirely quiet – only a single warg scout had interrupted their travel, and Caethel had dispatched that easily enough.

Remember.

She might already be dead.

Remember.

It’s your fault.

A tree, another one, the swamp, the lights... Seven days and no findings. My hands, my bag, my phials, all empty.

The sound of Elvealin’s crystal bell pendant. Norliriel knows I do not want to go back yet, I am sure. The crystal bell, once again. Norliriel’s hand is on my hands. I feel woozy.

I have to ask. “How much more do you think we can keep looking?”

The sun was sinking below the horizon, bathing the ruins in a soft red glow. Its rays gave some final warmth before the darkness of the night took over. Gwingris was more occupied today than usual with a group of travelers who had just come from Imladris. They sat beside the fire now, sharing its warmth and a kettle of herbal tea. Some of them had stepped aside to stand watch or speak with the inhabitants of Gwingris. At this time, Eliriael broke away from the group quietly and inquired into borrowing writing instruments and the use of a messenger bird.

It appears I do not have to cook much today. There are still much food after the feast of unveiling Anglachelm's portrait, and I have to get yet rid of some of it, somehow.

The weather was seasonably warm and the windows had been thrown open to let the breeze into the lofty hall, where the students sat attentively at their tables. Eliriael stood at the front, her summer-green robes billowing at her feet and yellow wildflowers tucked neatly into her hair. She had a couple sheafs of parchment that fluttered with the breeze in her delicate hands, as she spoke to the students.

Isilya, the 54^th day of Lairë

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