To Lord Ceneshar of Lothlórien,
Court of Celeborn the Wise,
Caras Galadhon
Father,
It has been long since I last wrote you. Too long, perhaps, for words alone to bear the weight of what now presses upon me. I do not know if this raven can weather the leagues between us, or if the winds will favour her wings.... but she carries more than parchment. She carries a daughter’s grief.
You once said I turned my back on Lothlórien. That I fled from the safety and splendour of our people to chase the wild like a leaf in the river’s current. Perhaps you were right. I was young. I am young still, though I now feel older than my years.
The world beyond the Golden Wood is not as I imagined it. It is beautiful, yes... but cruel in turn, and full of quiet breaking. I went out in service of my kin here in the west... Men and Elves and those in between. We sought only lumber. A simple task, a humble cause: to raise a hall where travellers might rest, where our Company might gather in peace, and from where its operations to protect goods and people moving along the great East Road might be coordinated.
But peace is not so easily hewn.
Our efforts have brought us to grief. Friends have been lost. The work of others... innocent folk, undone by blood and betrayal. The very wood we sought now lies tainted, its source unknown or suspect. A man named Mattas offers us what we need, yet doubt stains every word he speaks. One of my companions, Alairif, steadfast and just, would walk away. I envy his certainty.
But I—? I am left to decide. To sign a contract that might doom us… or to abandon the task, and with it the Company’s hope... and break my commitment to them. My fellowship falters. The world I thought I knew lies fractured. What began as a journey for timber has become a trial of spirit.
And so, with great sorrow, I turn to you. To home.
Father, I ask.... no, I beg - for aid.
If there is any grace left in the court of Celeborn… if any voice remains that would speak for me, let it be yours.
I seek a special dispensation: the delivery of seasoned oak; lesser than mallorn, I know, and I would never dare ask such a thing, but timber still noble and strong, fit to serve the needs of Men.
I make this request knowing what it means. Knowing what you will demand in return. That I come home. That I give up the wilds. That I trade freedom for duty. And if that is your price… I will pay it.
Not for wood. But for hope.
For the Company.
For a chance to set things right.
Your daughter,
—Naridalis
Continues with “A Father's Price”
