Rivendell

Thendryt couldn't be dead.

There must have been some sort of miracle - an extraordinary possibility that he may have survived the deep wound of a dagger, or the high fall from a mountain side, or the exhaustion of continuous battle both physically and psychologically.

Faorie covers her face with her hand, thinking of Thendryt's passing.

The vale was quiet as it usually was.

The sun was slowly rising, lighting the upper half of the Homely House. This was what Faorie could see as she rode into Imladris with Thendryt's journal stored into Ebrail's left satchel. Slowing down, she crossed the vine draped bridge of Rivendell, shifting her gaze across the landscape.

"Any man not eager to share his tales must be very wounded within."

Those were the words that Nelnardis had shared with Faorie some time ago in the Hall of Fire. It had been nearly a week since Thendryt's departure from Rivendell and she could still see the unsettling shadow in his gaze.

Tywerd looked around inside The Prancing Pony Inn .  Fireplace was lit , people were standing near it , drinking , talking ..   Tywerd saw barliman washing glasses with a piece of white cloth . At the table that was overlooking the fireplace , four hobbits were dancing and drinking .

The Hall of Fire was still and empty. The large fireplaces, burning with its usual comforting flames, lit the hall with its soft glow. Not a single elf stirred. Except one.

Faorie returned to Imladris after a long, unsuccessful night tracing Thendryt. There were no tracks to follow, no signs to search for, no witnesses to question - a way to locate Thendryt by this point was nonexistent.

Unkempt and slightly dirty, Faorie washed herself and replaced her armour with temporary casual attire. Dark clouds still rolled over Rivendell from the earlier rain accompanied by chill winds unusual for the season. Dried leaves rolled across the roads, making crinkly sounds with every turn the winds would take them.

Faorie stands near the Gates of Imladris, waiting for Thendryt.