There are several false starts and crossed out sentences in the Dúnadan’s journal, intermixed with tracings of stone designs and engravings, mostly from Eregion. But the notes are fragmented, and the theories and ideas break off.
I have not written since… I have tried, and stared at the blank page until its whiteness seemed a better mirror of my blank and empty heart than any ink I could spill on it.
To write anything is to destroy the pristine beauty of the page, to use to my own ends this ink that perhaps might be happier left alone, and a hundred years from now perhaps dry out and leave its purpose unfulfilled.
So I shall leave the tale for another time. Widowed and alone, save for that faithful friend and kindest of Children of Eru, Lady Glirwing, I have now come to the haven of the Eldar, to Imladris.
I dreamt of coming here, to talk to those who hold in memory ancient days long since vanished, and search the secrets of the library of the Half-Elven. Yet though I have been here a few days, I have not yet found even my old curiosity stirred. I have sat by this river, unbothered for the most part by the Imladrim, as if it could carry away my grief, or perhaps return to me my love of learning and seeking knowledge. But the river goes only to the sea. Perhaps I should follow it and take to the sea as many of the Dúnedain have done before me. But for now I am content, perhaps too content, to sit here and listen to the river, and hear the distant Elven singing carried by the wind.
I have not even written to my family, though my host’s cousin, Gelilthor, offered to ride to the Angle and deliver to them word that I live. Perhaps I will let her tell them in her own words, which must be kinder than mine, though it feels the coward’s way not to tell them frankly of my failure.
Gelilthor is swifter than her cousin—swifter to conversation, to laughter, to action. Both hold in their eyes the sorrow of the Eldar, but Gelilthor is like the flash of a bold sunset before it fades, while Glirwing remembers light before the sun, and walks to the rhythm of long vanished days. While Gelilthor is more practiced in dealings with mortal men, Glirwing possesses the gift of sitting in silence with grief, of not wavering in patient kindness, though I fear I was poor company on our journey north.
Lady Glirwing keeps Mar Nilmë, the house of some of the Nargothrondrim. While comfortable and beautiful, it is not what I expected. The entrance is like going underground, to perhaps some dwelling of the Dwarves, and indeed much of the stone work is dwarven. Large in the entrance is a statue of Felagund. Quickly it opens into a cheerful hall, often laid with fine food, though they have respected my request for solitude. Few dwell here now, though still guests, Elven and Edain are welcome.
Elisende’s quill seems to have gotten slightly damaged in the interlude between her previous words and this next entry. The margins are filled with half finished notes and names—mostly Adûnaic names, though her notes, as always, are in Sindarin.
I said I had been left alone by the Imladrim, and for the most part that is true. Yet last night I found myself in the midst of a crowd, mostly made up of my own kin! I write of a crowd, yet that shows how accustomed I have grown to solitude.
A proud and stern Noldo, Pelilasel, first came upon the spot where I was lost in thought, and though she was friendly enough, I believe she also sought that place for its solitude, and she found herself not overjoyed to find it occupied. She is cut from a different cloth, or perhaps rather hewed from different stone than the other Elves I have met—ancient and forbidding, taller even than Gelilthor, with whom she seems to share an ancient grudge. Maybe I will have the courage to ask Glirwing about it, Pelilasel too intimidates me. But perhaps the animosity of two of the Eldar is not a matter for mortals.
We were then joined by two of my own kinsmen. Cellinbor had travelled briefly with my husband, and although I did not know him, I think I saw him briefly in company of the Dunlending from whom I sought information from in the Breelands. That seems so long ago.
The other Dúnadan, Aranarion by name, at home and familiar with Imladris, lent to me a book, for he too seeks to learn as much as may be found of the history of our people. It contains much lore of the history of the Númenorian colonies, ere the Akallabêth, I did not know that such a record existed, and already have learnt much. He too was unafraid to chide me for giving into sorrow and dark thoughts while I stood in the light of the Valley of Imladris. His words of amdir were heeded I hope by more than me, for Pelilasel and Cellinbor both seemed heavy of heart.
I made the mistake of speaking too lightly to Pelilasel, forgetting that my friendship with Glirwing gave me not license for such disrespect, and suggested that perhaps the reason she did not take up smoking was fear of Gelilthor. She kindly ignored my gaff, yet we were later joined by another Elf, who was indeed fond of the pipe, and oh did it take all my effort to keep from revealing my amusement at the look of disgust on Pelilasel’s face.
I will now return to my reading, and perhaps later seek the fabled library of Lord Elrond.
