When a citizen of Gondor wanted to send a letter to a friend or a relative living in a distant town or city, the usual way was to give the letter to a local merchant or a farmer who was planning a trip closer to the letter’s destination. Traveling merchants of Gondor were usually willing to carry letters for a small fee. There were also courier systems in major cities, but those were reserved for important, official letters.
If the destination of the letter was very far, for example if the letter was sent from Pelargir to a coastal village called Brithgir in the Cape of Belfalas, it usually had to go through several carriers. For example if a merchant from Pelargir was planning a trade trip to Linhir, he would bring the letter with him to Linhir and leave it at an inn there to be stored until another merchant, farmer or another traveler would pick it up and transport it closer to its final destination.
Delioron’s estate in Brithgir had been sold to the House of Dol Amroth by arrangement between Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Parthadan, the Warden of the Green of Minas Tirith, who had purchased the house from its former owner, a retired lore-master named Delioron. The house was now occupied by a steward and a handful of guards and servants from the Great Hall of the Prince.
When a letter addressed to the former owner of the house arrived, the steward would hand it over to a messenger with a fast horse. The letter would then continue its long journey back to Pelargir and then north along the South Road until it arrived into a remote, secluded farmstead in Arnach, Lossarnach. The messenger would then hand the letter over to a guard dressed like a regular farmhand who would finally give it to its intended recipient.
For this reason it took closer to two months before the letter from Pelargir finally reached Delioron.
A guard dressed like a regular farmhand called at him when he returned to the secluded farmstead that had been his home for almost half a year already. It was a bright and sunny forenoon in the late autumn. The rainy winter season of southern Gondor had not started yet. Delioron took the letter without even looking at it and entered the farmhouse.
There were three rooms in the house. The wooden walls that had once been reddish brown had turned black with soot over the years. Logs crackled in the hearth. The house was littered with books, some opened and turned face down to keep the place, others piled on neat stacks on chairs and tables.
Delioron, a trained observer, had learned not to see all this. His life had turned inwards, as if he existed solely because he did not resist the terrifying, bottomless darkness. He was again a mean street urchin of Pelargir, unaffected by all the ugliness of the world because he was himself part of that ugliness. His dreams were more real to him than all the smells and sounds of the oppressing outside world.
Sometimes he would read all day and all night until sleep finally came in the dawn. This house made him feel like a child again, a child who did not resist the world but waited for the worlds of books to replace it in his mind.
Delioron smiled coldly at his temporary self-pity. He tossed the letter on a small table next to a wooden bench in front of the hearth. He opened a chipped and dented door to the larder. There were six eggs, a few oranges, dark bread, dried fish and a jug of red wine there. Delioron touched the jug of wine and was about to take it out, but then decided to put it back on the shelf. He took an orange instead, walked back to the hearth and put the orange on the table. He took off his hooded cloak and threw it on the bench. He sat down and looked at the scrolled letter and the books lying on the table. It was forenoon, he had another day ahead of him, another night, then another morning again. It was tolerable because he did not try to resist.
Almost half a year had passed since the assassins from Rohan had tried to kill him and Radawen in his former home at Brithgir. They had been easy targets. They had both thought that they could escape their past and build a new life together in Brithgir. How naive of him! If he had not been in love with Radawen he would never have been so stupid. That is how he now thought about it. Reluctantly, obediently, like slaves who lock their own chains, they had returned to their past lives, now separately. It was inevitable.
He took the orange and started peeling it. Parthadan had come from Minas Tirith to visit him a few days ago. The Warden of the Green and Denethor’s unofficial spymaster had not been able to conceal his glee over the fact that Delioron had essentially crawled back to him for protection. No, it was not quite so. It was Radawen he wanted to save.
”Almost half a year has passed”, Parthadan had said, all but rubbing his hands in excitement. ”You don’t have to suffer much longer anymore.”
”So there has been no sightings of suspicious characters in Minas Tirith or anywhere else?”
”None”, Parthadan had replied. ”Whoever wants you dead must have given up already.”
”What about Radawen?”
”She is safe”, Parthadan had assured. ”I have personally guaranteed her safety.”
”Is she alright?”
Parthadan had glanced at him dubiously. ”Did I not just say so? She is safe. They have given up on both of you. As long as you stay working for me, you will be safe.”
”How nice to get back to work!” Delioron had replied sarcastically.
Delioron frowned as he remembered the incident. It bothered him how eager he had been to see Parthadan again. His seclusion in Arnach had begun to get on his nerves, and he hated his weakness. He pried the orange open like a book, removed a wedge and ate it.
Delioron was in his mid-forties. He could feel it sometimes as his joints cracked and the muscles of his broad back curled up in the mornings. His body still looked young and muscular, but his face was much older than his body. His forehead and the corners of his eyes were cross-hatched with lines. His arctic grey eyes matched his arctic grey hair. His shoulders were deceptively broad, his hands big and calm and his fingers flat and wide. His whole appearance was deceptive. In certain light he looked small while in another he appeared bigger than he actually was. He did not talk often. He had spent his entire life among strangers.
He picked up the scroll letter from the table and recognized the seal. He had not seen it in a long time. It chilled him to see it now, so unexpectedly. He was about to toss the letter into the fire but hesitated in the last moment, tossing the letter on the basket of firewood instead to burn it later. He stood up, went to the larder and fetched the jug of wine and a goblet. He sat down on the bench again and poured some wine on the goblet.
What had he expected anyway? A letter from Radawen? How are you, I am fine. She did not even know where he was. She would never hear from him again. He went to the window and looked outside.
Some days he would walk along the secluded paths in the outskirts of Arnach for hours until he came back to the farmhouse to drink red wine until his body and mind were numb. When he walked he would think about Radawen, but when he drank her memory would gradually fade. After a while he would not remember her at all.
Radawen was a scholar and a scribe at the Houses of Lore. When they had met for the first time in Imloth Melui he had used her to pry the secrets of the old blue-clad stranger who had come to Gondor from Rhûn and called himself Romenstar. He had used her, fallen in love with her and then he had left her. On the second time they had met by accident. Delioron had realized then that he had been given a second chance, and he had taken it. Radawen had betrayed all her ideals to be with him. And then someone connected to the events at Amon Hen, perhaps even Sauron himself, had decided that they both had to die for their actions there.
Delioron had made a deal with Parthadan: save her and I will be yours. Parthadan had wanted him back so badly that he had agreed to it.
Radawen had gone back to her work at the Houses of Lore, filled with harrowing cynicism. She knew what her love for Delioron had made her do and understood what she had been willing to sacrifice to be with him. And now they could never see each other again as the price of their safety. She did not even know where he was.
”You resent working for me”, Parthadan had said.
”Yes.” There had been no point in lying.
”But even so, you will remain useful to me.”
His former life had been wiped away. House Dol Amroth had purchased his house in Brithgir. The money from the deed belonged to Delioron, but Parthadan kept it for him in Minas Tirith.
When he had finished his goblet of wine Delioron pondered if he should have another one. But he put the stopper on the jug and carried it back to the larder. It was not even noon yet. He had a long day ahead of him still.
He stood by the basket of firewood, picked up the letter and broke the seal. He read it quickly at first to be done with it, bu then he had to read it again.
Dearest Deli,
I would not have bothered to write only to tell You that I am not well at all. I once told You that I do not care what You do these days, but now You have involved me in Your affairs, and that is something I do not like at all. Besides, dearest Deli, it is Your duty to come visit your poor, sick aunt Mel.
Meldis
Delioron read the letter for the third time with a blank expression. Meldis. Great-aunt Meldis. She had been already old when she had took him into her custody. Delioron had been her good deed. If not for Meldis, he would have had to submit himself to the mercy of the court of Pelargir as they tried to decide whether they should give a thirteen-year old boy a death sentence or commit him to a hard - but short - life of forced labor for the murder of a child, another street urchin of thirteen. Lady Meldis of House Orchaldor had stepped in to save Delioron, a bastard son of a minor noble and a relative to Lady Meldis. She had acknowledged Delioron as kin to House Orchaldor and promised to give him noble upbringing, which had resolved the issue and granted Meldis his ownership.
Damn the witch! He dropped the letter back on the pile of firewood. He had no duty for her. And he did not want to see her ever again.
But now You have involved me in Your affairs.
The words chilled him. He walked over to the window and looked outside at the yard. How had he involved Meldis in his affairs?
Damn it! Meldis was just as stubbornly silent as Delioron. What could hide behind those crafty phrases? He should let Parthadan know. Why did they redirect his letters back to him? Why could they not send them directly to Parthadan? To hell with him too!
An hour later he mounted his horse. He had packed his dagger, his sword and all the tools of his trade he thought he might need. He reckoned that it would take three or four days to ride to Pelargir.
He had decided not to inform the guards about his plans after all. By the time they noticed his absence he would be far. By the time the word reached Parthadan’s ears he would be even farther, perhaps already at home.
Home…
Where was home, anyway?
When Meldis had brought him to her luxurious townhouse from the prison cell where they had kept him locked up and in chains waiting for his trial, he had kept his silence for a month. For a whole month he had not uttered a word to Meldis, not even after she had given him a room of his own. He had never had a room of his own before.
”You will grow out of that”, Meldis had warned him patiently, with a voice laced with veiled threat. ”I will wait. I have more patience than you. You will break before I do.”
