This entry is found scribbled in the margins of Lômizimril's research notes, the neat but rather small Tengwar hand written in slightly smudged ink on one of the various scrolls she carries in a case in her pack. A few lines seem to have neat, straight lines drawn through them, as if they were deliberated and later marked as invalid for one reason or another, like chiseling away the blocky imperfections of a half-finished sculpture.
What am I doing with this? I feel like a child, writing where I should be taking notes on the lost history of ancient places, but some puerile part of me hopes that it will help. It feels strange to write letters not meant to be read. The whimsical girl in me hopes he will read it, wherever he is now it will do some good just to let the words manifest in physical form.
Death is a terrible thing. I can see why our ancestors abhorred it so, that the kings of Númenor would live beyond all health and wisdom. I have little fear of it these days, but if I could spare so The rest of the text in this line is smeared out of all legibility. A few blotches darken the parchment, presumably from water.
Regardless, it would be unbecoming not to maintain composure in such circumstances. Heroes are to be celebrated as much as mourned, and theatrical lamentations only disrespect their accomplishments, not to mention that it is hardly the respectable thing to do. I already have a reputation for wearing dark colors at all times, and they attribute it to a minor eccentricity of the high-born. It will serve me well enough to grieve privately.
What is there to do now? My studies were bent against the Shadow, and I had grown to genuinely like my comrades. Is it best to return to Dol Amroth? Marriage, an heir, and enough potential substitutes with a suitable man of sufficiently noble blood are an inevitability for the sake of the family. I have known this since childhood.
Why do I even write about this? They must wonder of my absence, despite the letter I left to explain the need for my strengths to be put to work elsewhere. The wisdom of the mind must take priority over the capabilities of the body. Without my memory and consciousness, what truly differentiates me from my younger sisters?
No, there must be something else to do or learn before I go southward once more. I am gifted with the longevity of my line, this much is clear, and there are years left in me yet for the duties of a lady. Who knows if after giving up this life, I will again have the opportunity to be a traveling scholar?
Never before have I written these words upon a page, but perhaps giving them life and form will help them come to fruition: If I cannot live forever, it is best to be remembered. I wish to be immortalized by my work, by the writings of those who come after me as they look back upon my life. The lore of days long past, shrouded in the mists of centuries and millennia, calls to me as the moon calls the sea. My legacy cannot be merely as someone's daughter, bride, sister, or mother. If the one mention of my name in the libraries of Gondor is as someone's kinswoman in a footnote, I will never rest easy.
I will not be forgotten.
The entry stops here, the last few words written in large, decisive letters.
