Tancamir wandered into the open door, absently holding a rolled-up letter in his hand. It had arrived from Lindon several days ago, delivered by a chattering young elleth named Aurineth. She had come to deliver a letter to Cúrandir from Ningloriel of Mithlond, who she claimed as one of her neighbours. His lip curled in distaste as he remembered how the girl had asked him all sorts of personal questions about who had sent the letter, and how he knew Ningloriel, and so forth. Yet he had not delayed in opening the letter once he was alone, and its contents had both pleased and disturbed him.
He had not heard from Falasgil's sister since his departure from Mithlond into the Wild. The leaves had fallen from the trees more than five hundred times since he had last been in Lindon. In those years, he had gone out to patrol the harsh and inhospitable lands west of the Hithaeglir, seldom returning to settled lands, and certainly not to Imladris. And in the years of his sojourn among the Rangers of Esteldín, he had tried to push all thoughts of his past in Lindon to the side, especially the memories of his fallen friend, dearer to him then a brother. Opening the letter was like re-opening an old wound long forgotten, and he had not been himself for several days. Moodily he had stood in the Hall of Fire nursing a goblet of white wine, which Sogadan had claimed to be from the finest vineyards in Lindon. Often he wondered what Falasgil would have thought of Imladris, or how he would have reacted to the tale of his many wanderings after leaving Mithlond.
We were going to travel the lands of Eriador, you and I, once the war was over, Falasgil, he had thought with a pang. You had wanted to see the sunset over Nenuial, and the rugged plains of the North Downs. Perhaps you would even have brought me home to Imladris.
It was on one such evening that he had come upon his Lord Dolthafaer and his fellow Arrow Luthelian in pleasant conversation by the fire. They had exchanged a few words, though the girl received him coldly, appearing to have taken offence at his criticism of her skills on the practice field. Falasgil would have understood, he thought. There was no other archer he had known, save perhaps the Ranger Ruinel, who would shrug off criticism with a jaunty smile, and rise to the challenge.
It must have been the wine, he reflected, or the dismal winter evening that had led him to speak of Falasgil to his Lord, and of happier days in Lindon when he had been young and eager. Luthelian stared at him with wide brown eyes, frown slowly turning to a sympathetic gaze when he spoke of his past. Somehow, her spirited ways reminded him of Ruinel, of how she had spoken to him at their first meeting, she a mere girl of fifteen winters. It brought back troubled memories, both of happiness and pain, and he excused himself from the Hall, feigning a cheer that he did not feel.
Yet he was not one to drown in self-pity, and he occupied his hands and mind with other matters until the pain had faded, replaced with the dull ache of loss. Now he sat down at his old work-table, recently cleaned and re-ordered. He unrolled the letter for what seemed the hundredth time, and read it again.
Cúrandir,
I write to you from Mithlond, as I have often done since you resigned your post in the Guard and departed. I know my past letters have returned to me unopened, but I cannot stop hoping that I will reach you someday. Wherever your path may have led you, know that you will always have a home in Mithlond. Súlrohir and I have not forgotten you, the dearest companion of my brother Falasgil. The house has seemed so empty without the two of you - indeed I cannot decide whether to laugh or weep on remembering all the mischief you two used to create. Sometimes at night I can almost hear Falasgil's clear voice singing some drinking song, and the sounds of his and your feet shuffling up the hall. His bow still hangs upon the wall in his room, along with his ivory quiver and hunting-horn.
But the years have not been altogether unkind to me and to Súlrohir. It has nearly been one year of the Sun since we were blessed with our first child. She has been a light amid the darkness of our past sorrows and bereavement. Súlivrin is her name - she is a beautiful, intelligent child, but also one of the reasons I have been more weary of late. If you come again to Mithlond, you shall be obliged to stay in Falasgil's room, for your room has been made into Súlivrin's little domain, over which she is tyrant and sole ruler. Súlrohir is a proud father, and calls her "tithen rîn," his "little queen," though I have tried to discourage him from spoiling her so. Súlivrin is asleep as I write this, but keeps me distracted each waking hour as she toddles about the house. Just yesterday she wandered into Falasgil's room and would not leave until I had shown her Falasgil's bow in great detail. I am afraid I may have another archer on my hands!
Though she is but my first child I feel like I am now thrice a mother, for only Eru knows how much you two boys kept me on my toes for those happy years you were together. The years have dulled the pain of Falasgil's passing, though they have not dimmed my memories of him, or of your friendship. To him you were a full brother in heart, if not in blood, and I too count you as one of our family. If your wanderings ever lead you toward Lindon once more, know that Súlrohir, Súlivrin, and I shall welcome you with open arms.
May the light of Ëarendil shine upon your paths, and the voice of Ulmo guide you home.
Your Sister,
Ningloriel
Home. He had found it again, on returning to his family in Imladris. Yet part of his heart would always be in that little stone house by the sea, where the clatter of Ningloriel's weaving in the back room mingled with the song of the waves. She had been both mother and sister to him and Falasgil, for their parents had departed West over Sea. His mouth twisted into a smile as he imagined Ningloriel and her husband chasing an energetic little elfling around the house. Perhaps he would take time to visit them, when war no longer troubled Imladris. But that time would be a long way off, and the best he could do now was to reply to her letter.
He would have to ask his sister Uilossiel for ink and parchment, he thought in annoyance, as he kept little, if any, with him. Idly he took up a block of rowan wood that had been resting upon the table. Perhaps the little queen Súlivrin would like a wooden toy - a horse, or rather a stag, he thought as he turned the wood in his hands. Humming an old sea chantey that Falasgil had taught him, he took out a small knife from the shelf above and began to carve the wood, cares chipping away like the curls of wood that fell from the carving.
