Themodir

Dearest diary, reassuringly blank companion! Through how many nights of grief, suffering two fresh arrow-wounds to the fëa, have you consoled me? But I fear nothing has quite prepared either of us for the present fix. 

Well, Diary, a thorough search of Themodir's house -- I must get in there to clean it more often; the drake trophies in particular look as if they were slain by dust -- revealed none of the missing ledger pages. I had not really thought they might be there, but every possibility must be examined. I suppose that I wanted his guidance, even the faint scent of his presence -- the imprint of his fëa upon the things he handled and touched.

It was not that, as she removed a stack of hairpins, Manadhlaer thought anything had gone particularly wrong at the Ball. Indeed, at times the dance-floor had been an impenetrable Huorn-forest of bodies through which she simply could not struggle hard enough to reach the other side of the room.

Not often was the grim visage of the Hound of Vanimar a face one might describe as anything but cold, cruel, contemptuous. Yet after he and his dearest friend, the Gondolindrim bastard, had finished their great work, his face lit with a strangely innocent joy. Themodir beheld in Daegond all that he once was, before, and all that he should have been. That their project was grisly bothered Themodir not at all at this moment, for his war-damaged friend was now happy.

Manadhlaer awoke in the dark, in more than one way.

Someone had thoughtfully tucked her diary under her arm. Had she a quill and ink? They must be in her pouch, if she could find it.

With infinite care, she put her feet -- disguised, as she had thought, in mismatched boots, which suited her sloppy grey tunic -- on the floor. She groped around a bit, head pounding; she tried not to move more quickly, lest she vomit again.

Everything about the choice of parchment -- not paper -- for this letter, the unfailing perfection of the calligraphy, and the signet of the Order of the Pillar is presented with ballgown formality.

Angrinc
Guest Quarters, Imladris

My most esteemed mortal comrade:

Dear Diary,

I pressed the key to Themodir's house into the wide hand of a very surprised Dwarf fellow named Grunngi. In the course of events, it was decided that we would bring Grunngi back with us from Hrimbarg, for no good could come of the miserable life he was leading there with his perpetually angry cousin. (Some mystery surrounds the cousin, as it does everything lately.)

Diary, it is ridiculous.

Any other order that lost people in such a careless and rapid manner would be disbanded. Himwen at least keeps a tight rein on her soldiers of the Fountain, even if she yells at them a bit much. (Poor Nandutiriel! She probably saved Elloen's life, albeit in a grossly roundabout manner.)

But two Hammerites in five years only -- five turns of the seasons. To face each dawn without my only love is one difficulty, but to face summer this year without Daegond eating my flowers -- that was simply too much on top of the other loss.

Dear Diary,

Yes, yes, it is late. It is one of those white nights. Norlië's cat Eli is making some very odd and unpleasant noises at me because I am not reclining on my bed. I have had some lengthy conversations with that cat. Of course, the chief topic is Norliriel herself. I told Eli that I miss her too, that she will be back when she has finished her business, and I am sure that to buy back her cat's favour, she will bring some sort of fish. Maybe salted, as the traveller prepares it, but fish.

My beloved liege,

I wanted to tell you of my dream -- I dreamed of Themodir once more.

But first, I will report that I have tried the corn beverage on hir Silwë and hir Tolmen, who are both long-lived Noldor of good constitution. (Tuilerie and Ailinwen were also nearby, but Tuilerie never takes strong drink, and Ailinwen was perhaps too intelligent to try it.)