A rectangular parcel of thin leather, tanned and oiled, and dyed the colour of Autumn red. It is held shut by a series of braided strands of leather wound in intricate loops and knots that would, at a tug, unravel themselves to release their contents. Within would be found an envelope of sturdy parchment, cut with exacting lines and neat, crisp corners, and inside a folded letter of the same stuff. A seal of red wax holds the envelope shut, and bears a stylized, graceful, y-shaped symbol that the recipient would no doubt recognize. On both the parcel and envelope is writ, in ink for the latter and burned into the leather for the former, both with a graceful, flowing hand:
Miss Brynleigh
Snowbourne
Eastemnet
Rohan
Middle-earth
Dear Miss Brynleigh,
Would that I could describe in words how deeply your letter has touched my heart. Sunbeams and clear waters, the scent of Spring wildflowers, ah, and blue skies arcing high over a far green countryside. I confess my breath caught in my chest when I received a missive stamped by the people of Rohan, delivered no less by one of your countrymen. O blessed courier! I must repeat my gratitude to him, and beg forgiveness for my wayward wits at our first and brief meeting. And here now I am tasked with a reply; what gift of words can I give of equal measure? A dozen tongues, and yet I have not the wealth to equal but a silent smile from your lips. So long we have been parted, and here now our hearts touch again at last... I feel your letter next to me, and it is as if you were there, tea-cup in hand... and as usual when we sat next to each other those long and comforting nights in the Prancing Pony, I am at a loss.
Though the distance has pained me, still I am glad you have returned to the land of your forebears. I have always felt it would do you a healing, even before the terrible passing of your late husband, and it seems it has, after a fashion: you have found your next step, in a manner of speaking. I hesitate to give advice, for advice is a dangerous thing, yet many lands there are of equal or greater danger. If this letter finds you safe still in Snowbourne, I beg of thee, beware! South of Gondor, in and past Harad, the lands are lawless. East of the Brown Lands they speak strange tongues (beautiful, in their own way... ah, but, that is a different letter), and they recognize only their own kings, and many are under the sway of Mordor. Even the Elves of the Far East are slow to trust (yet most still are Good People). Trouble yourself not with any mountains other than the White and Blue, and even then, for the former, only those recognized by Gondor and Rohan. Trust in those of your kin who know the lands better than you do. Selfishly I beg this, for I could not bear the thought of this being the last I hear of you. Yet even with all that... I would not alter your path or stay your feet. If your heart yearns to wander, then wander it must. Whither you go is where you are meant to be.
It would bring joy incalculable to my heart should happy chance lead you to pass through Bree, yet I would not be so bold as to make demands of Fate. Still... I shall have some tea ready, and honey-cakes (not the same fare as Mister Baldmar brought, but passable, if I may be so bold to say).
I could also introduce you to a friend of mine, since you asked. In late Autumn of yesteryear Miss Jade arrived in Bree from Gondor, and was at first content to rummage for food and shelter in alleys. A terrible proposition to face with Winter nigh, and by blissful chance, she was a rare Man who accepted rational advice! ... to a degree, at least. I helped her build a small hut of stone and mud and thatch, and taught her some basic wilderland survival. She took to it very well, and lasted the Winter without incident. As Spring encroached, we journeyed to Rivendell for additional training; it seems she was a healer in a small clinic in Gondor, her experience far more practical and immediate than philosophical and holistic, and her thirst for new knowledge flourished in the House of Elrond. She is a kind and honest soul, though a wayward one; living in the moment is all well and good, but she, like you, left something behind, and even though she seems quite settled, I fear a day will come when she too will return whence she came, or wander off to new lands. Like for you, I would be sad to see her leave... but such is the way of things. Bree continues to grow quiet. I hear of this and that, yet from my perch, I see little.
I wonder if Mister Kristophor is simply keeping me out of the loop. It would fit his kindly, if grim, demeanour, and in consideration of the incident some months ago. Not a terrible one, and my wound was shallow and healed rapidly, and the men at the fore of the trouble have not been seen nor heard of by me since. The last word of any troubles that passed my ears was a rather exasperated woman of the local Watch, and I fear she was rather exaggerating the situation (as evidenced by her passing out on the floor of the Prancing Pony due to overexertion). For his part, Mister Kristophor appears to be doing well. As well as ever he could, I suppose. And Miss Amanda has not changed, though she seems to have a slightly thicker skin about her. Such are the wounds and scars of growing-up.
Miss Ruevir returned briefly. There is far too much to speak of on that for a single letter, suffice it to say, she fled again, and I have not heard from her in some weeks. Please forgive the brevity of this subject; my feelings are still mixed.
This Elf you describe... this Silwë. I have not heard the name, yet you describe him well enough. By the dark hair and garb, and his demeanour, I would place him within the tribe of the Noldor. Perhaps you have heard me speak of them before... for my Father is counted among them. If you recall what I said of my Father, you know I need not say anything further of this Elf's character. I know not if the two ever met... my Father would speak only little of his past, and I wished not to bring further weakness to his heart by forcing him to recount it. If this Elf is still there when this letter reaches you, or if you see him again, please convey to him that Nambarussë and Silimarussë are long broken, but the strong arm who wielded them lingers still in the East, in the Golden Wood, and there may comfort be found for a time.
I have heard that the caravan that brought this letter will head on to the Shire soon, and return briefly, before striking out again southward, toward Rohan. Perhaps I am being unduly impatient... yet this letter will not wait for them. I know of Men of the North who make frequent journeys to Rivendell, and there are some still who cross the Mountains there, and who trade with the Woodmen under the eaves of Mirkwood, who in turn are known to your people (and even share kinship with them, in some parts). Would that I could dismiss all thoughts of this letter and its delivery, and instead shoulder my pack and fly down the Greenway toward the crossing of the River Isen. Many miles I could cover at a swift pace, with naught by my feet to carry me. Only a few weeks it would take for me to touch your face at last, and all weariness of the journey would evaporate. Alas, that would not be proper; if in Bree there are ghosts, I would not bring them to you if you are not ready. Yet, if you feel at last you must face them, know that you need not face them alone. I will be here, and by your side should you return. I make few promises, for I dare not place expectations upon Fate... yet this promise I make to you.
Whatever may come, and wherever you path leads you, know that my love goes with you. If ever you find yourself in need, call to me, and I will come, no matter what perils lay between us.
I Remain and Shall Ever Be,
Yours Most Sincerely,
Cesistya
