It is the 49th day of Iavas
In the 3018th year of the Sun
Of the Third Age of Middle-earth

It is the eve of our departure from the Woodland Realm, and all is in readiness.... all, that is, besides my heart! And I know not if our road will permit me to write again ere we come to Imladris under the pale Sun of Firith, therefore I record herein my gloomy thoughts in the hope that erelong I shall look back at these words and at laugh at my despair!

For it seems to me that the Flame Imperishable that always brightly burned within my fae has all but perished; withered to a barely glowing spark. Feveren I was named by my Laegren clan in the springtime of my childhood, but no stirring of joy have I felt for days uncounted. Alas! as the Sun fades into winter's cold embrace, my forlorn spirit fades also day by day; my heart feels as barren as the boughs beneath which we will soon journey.

Teithoron once told me the tale of Míriel, mother of Fëanor, and I grieved that any Elf might be overcome by such great sorrow and weariness as to forsake Middle-earth and pass ever into the keeping of Mandos. But of late I have wondered if the silent road to Mandos' Hall is not a simpler one than the long, long road to the Grey Havens...

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