It is the 1st day of Laer
in the 3016th year of the Sun
of the Third Age of Middle-earth

Too long has it been since I last put ink to parchment, but of what shall I write when I have naught to record? Perhaps that my acorn fares well and has sprouted into a small and hale green sapling, though I myself have not gained even a little height through all the days of Ethuil!

And needless is it to spend precious parchment to report on the joys and toil of each day, or of the passing seasons by which our labours are ordered: planting in Ethuil and harvesting in Iavas; foraging for nuts and berries in Iavas and Firith; or gathering herbs of healing for drying in the warm days of Laer. Yet our woodland life is never dull and every day is a delight!

But I must write something down, if but to vex Echeleb! For he scorns my keeping of this tale of my days, and when he sees me toiling over its pages he scoffs that no one shall ever read my words -- save perhaps Teithoron Tegilbor -- for few among the Tawarwaith have need of this "Sindar art"; thus, he says, is there little reason for to keep it. Swarn Dân! (It is my good fortune that he has not the skill to read my words, although perhaps there is some small part of him that would be pleased to see I have learned something of the Nandor tongue of old!)

If we Elves have a fault, I deem it is that in the course of our long, long lives, our bodies change not at all and therefore our minds change little too; hence there is a deep desire to preserve the world unchanged for all of our immortal lives. To my mind the higher crafts that grew in Beleriand, and which were brought to us by the Sindar, are gifts that should be received gladly and be availed of; if Echeleb had his way we would not even enjoy the boons of fire! (Nay, I jest... he is not so deep-rooted in the past.) Mayhap it is my lesser years that gives to me the will to seek new paths through the forests of my life; to climb a different tree than my forebears? But I know not...

Yet I would write something here that might gladden the heart of my father's father (if he could but read it!), and so I shall record the line of my kin...

The family line of any Elf reaches back to the Awakening at Nen Echui in the the Years of the Trees, and any Teleri would hope to claim descendancy from Enel the Elf-father himself, rather than of the other two and seventy Unbegotten Nelyar. But I think it matters not. In truth, not even Echeleb can reckon back through the years upon years ere the Host of Dân came to dwell in the forests of Ossiriand; and it is far beyond my skill to even try, for numbers are not my strength. Indeed, Teithoron taught me the counting-lore of the Cuivienyarna when I was yet a boy, but reckoning has never given me joy.

Our line spans so far before, through years uncounted, that the Telerin forms of the names of my forebears have long been forgotten and only their Sindarin rendering is remembered now: Norgalad and Thúlher who begat Echeleb; Gilorn and Ellother who begat Delloril; Nengel and Silivreneth who begat Tawardil; and Eithruin and Rodon who begat Reneth. And I cannot question these esteemed ancients, for Norgalad perished in the First Battle of Beleriand, and after that land sank ruined into the sea and their homeland of Lindon was sundered, the three who remained wearied of the world and heeded the summons of Eönwë to complete the Great Journey unto the Blessed Realm.

Echeleb wed Delloril in the after-days of the Laegrim coming to Eryn Galen at the dawn of the Second Age of the Sun; and they begat two sons, Gladhron and Gellin, my father. But Tawardil, father of my mother, wed Reneth ere the ruin of Beleriand and Amdirren, my mother, was born in the green-shadowed woodlands of Lindon; but brief were her days of dwelling there, for her birth was but soon ere the War of Wrath consumed the lands.

My mother and father begat their firstborn son, Amdiran my brother, in the days of peace that lay upon our folk whilst they yet dwelt in the western glens of the Emyn Duir. Alas, he fell to the foul blades of our foes in the Battle of Five Armies, fighting fearlessly against the orcs and wargs of Ered Mithrin and Hithaeglir. Hence was I born from my mother's grief and her deep desire for another child to whom she could give her boundless love.

And thus is the lineage of my kin ordered:

((The Angerthas Daeron is transcribed using Glǽmscribe.))

Echeleb says the line of our kin is like the branches of a mighty tree, but now that I have drawn it here it seems to my eyes more akin to the strangling ivy that hangs down from the oak boughs in the deepwood, and trails thence along the ground seeking for a new tree to climb!

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