Elvealin

This is written on two sheets of neatly folded parchment, sealed with a drop of brown wax imprinted with the head of an arrow on it. The handwriting is neat and precise, not in the slightest ornamental, though in some places it loses its crisp shape as if the writer's hand was fatigued. On the outside of the parchment is written the name of Lord Dolthafaer, to whom it is addressed.

To Lord Dolthafaer of the Order of the Arrow, Bar-en-Vanimar

Tancamir sat crouched with his back to the wall of the ruin, fire crackling in the distance. Before him lay a worn but clean piece of parchment, as well as a battered leather-bound journal covered in scrawling notes. He sighed.

My dearest Norlië:

I hope you can read my cramped writing on this tiny parchment, and that Lille's eagle finds you in relative safety.

Remember.

She might already be dead.

Remember.

It’s your fault.

A tree, another one, the swamp, the lights... Seven days and no findings. My hands, my bag, my phials, all empty.

The sound of Elvealin’s crystal bell pendant. Norliriel knows I do not want to go back yet, I am sure. The crystal bell, once again. Norliriel’s hand is on my hands. I feel woozy.

I have to ask. “How much more do you think we can keep looking?”

 The watchful eyes of the lone sentry found her as soon as she stepped out from the shadows of the trees, but he only nodded, eyes flicking to the stitched mark of her company on her arm, and gestured for her to pass.

As she moved closer, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile, and he remarked: “You're getting sloppy, Cae. Saw you coming from miles away.”