Vinyalonde

My spirit was not haughty, but it was proud. In stubborn silence, I would sit under the dark pines, wondering why I was so ignorant that I could not answer the questions of children. I knew a few things, but what I did not know was immense. I wished to learn more about the world and see what lay outside the borders of my homeland. So I ventured forth, without any idea of what I would find. Exceedingly foolish it seems to me now, but at the time, I thought it was the best path.

The rain comes whispering, rising from the quiet of a still, cloudy day. I step off the porch, feeling the water gathering in the wet grass, running into my hair and over my face. The letter in my hand grows sodden, words running into trails of ink. The thirsty ground beneath my feet drinks deep in rain, welcoming the interlude. I move to my old, familiar, spot, standing above the waterfall, feeling the water slanting through the air, hearing it surround me. A childish gesture sends the piece of paper carelessly into the torrent beneath me, spinning out of sight in moments.

I had just entered Lord Elrond’s great hall, and was making my way to the Hall of Fire, when a hand darted out from behind a pillar, catching me by the wrist. I was shocked to come face to face with my brother Culufinnel!

It begins like this.

Slow, measured strokes ease the blood from the blade. The flickering firelight illuminates a face as smooth and expressionless as a statue. Long ages ago, she had wept during this ritual – purging kindred blood, night after night, from a blade stained with terrible deeds, wondering whether anything could be worth the destruction they had caused. But it is many years since Nirhen has allowed herself to weep.

Now Rainith has told us of her wounding during her brave battle with the Orc on the very borders of the wood, and how she stood between them and her Malledhrim friend, and suffered grave injury, almost losing her life, from the look of her. I am worried that she is too weary to travel, but she said she was not.

I returned to the Valley to find the Last Homely House almost the same as it was when I left it, with the trees around waving mournfully in the rising east wind, a promise of the end of my Lord Anglachelm.

      The pen skitters off the table and rolls across the floor, coming to a rest barely an inch from where Maltariel sits on the sill, looking out of the window at the dawn. She looks up at the sound, uncurling lithely to pick it up and walk slowly across the room, eyes on me as she holds it out. I grimace apologetically, pushing the ruined piece of parchment towards her as she drops into a chair opposite me.

The next day I came to see the Lieutenant, who was recovered from his wound, and he shared gladsome news. The filthy Orc were finally beaten back and scattered into the woods, for now; no doubt, they would gather their strength again, and assail the fortress. Our losses were great, but not as great as I imagined.

Coming hither from the ruined wood of Taur Morvith, eluding the orcish outposts under cover of the pervading darkness, we crossed into the Vale of Ash, and passed round its western side, the tower being on the hilltop in the eastern end of the wood.

I had spent several weeks as the Lieutenant’s soldier-page, and was almost driven mad from boredom, when late one night, as I lay disconsolate on my cot, I heard the horns a-blowing. The Lieutenant leapt up, seized his bow, and telling me to come with him, ran outside the tent. The Enemy was attacking at last!