Silmacale

A letter arrived to me recently. It was sent to be by Lossënénu, telling of the severe injury rendered to her husband, Daerond, in their quest to aid the banks of Greenwood. He was struck with a blade of unknown make, and appears to have been poisoned in spirit. He withers, growing feebler by the day, though his wounds are healed. She fears his tether waning, and stays by his side day and night. She begs me return to Lothlorien, but I fear that I cannot.

After days of travelling, I and Avorwen have finally reached the fairgrounds of Ered Luin. The Elves of Celondim were celebrating the coming of summer, and it is not easy to deny such an invitation. Thus we walked to the pavilion south of Celondim.

A few elves were already there. They were natives, but it did not take long for more familiar faces to join us. Lots of new faces we met, and we lots of long-lasting friendly bonds we established with them.

Enyalëa Tarnin Austa, estel anarórëva

 Mína alyaliër

Oh, Diary! You will never guess who finally came back to our weekly gatherings in the Hall of Fire! It is my dear friend Mirineth, she whose presence used to be indispensible at these gatherings, she who went around to every new-comer and called them brother or sister, and made them feel welcome. She also introduced me to some warriors, one of whom always pestered her to dance, saying that he could support her in such a way that none would notice her wound...