Rivendell

It is over. Darkness fills the hall, tempered by the light from the huge fireplaces. Sogadan mutters something and scowls at her, refusing to be cowed by Cachunir's reproachful looks. She stares into the gloomy depths of her wine, ignoring the vintner and scholar alike. Eventually, their third companion, still clad in his uniform, draped in Elrond's colours, speaks.

“When do you leave?”

Strange winds had been blowing down into Imladris...

They're stronger. They're colder...

The search for Thendryt finds its end.

Faorie had returned to Imladris on a heavily clouded morning.

The following is a small scroll newly placed upon the Shelves of the Scholar's Stair. The Author you may not have heard of as anyone staying in Bree-town at this time, though the name is clearly Elvish. The hand-writing is neat with a quill-pen on parchment.

On the Calendar of the Elves
~ And ~
What Might be Considered to Improve It

Thendryt couldn't be dead.

There must have been some sort of miracle - an extraordinary possibility that he may have survived the deep wound of a dagger, or the high fall from a mountain side, or the exhaustion of continuous battle both physically and psychologically.

Faorie covers her face with her hand, thinking of Thendryt's passing.

The vale was quiet as it usually was.

The sun was slowly rising, lighting the upper half of the Homely House. This was what Faorie could see as she rode into Imladris with Thendryt's journal stored into Ebrail's left satchel. Slowing down, she crossed the vine draped bridge of Rivendell, shifting her gaze across the landscape.

"Any man not eager to share his tales must be very wounded within."

Those were the words that Nelnardis had shared with Faorie some time ago in the Hall of Fire. It had been nearly a week since Thendryt's departure from Rivendell and she could still see the unsettling shadow in his gaze.