Rivendell

It feels like an age since I have listened to the sounds that flutter in my ears, or watched the sights that glitter before mine eyes. In truth, it was perhaps just over a year, by Man's reckoning, that I last set foot upon the grass of Imladris. And yet, it always surprises me when I say as much to myself. Time has performed a cruel trick indeed. Soon, I will celebrate the day of my conception, over four hundred years ago. Four hundred years. And one lone year seems to have stretched just as much, if not longer.

It is only a short ride from the stables to the Gates of Imladris. Nelnardis urges Beren to a canter, listening to the steady rhythm of hooves upon the road, trying to calm herself. However her heart inevitably beats faster as she nears the watchers.

One of them sees her approach and they sigh as Beren slows to a halt. Before Nelnardis can even ask the question the watcher shakes their head. Nothing. She nods, sadly, turning back to the road to the stables.

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.

Naurdam strode across the courtyard to his waiting steed. He had spent the past few months within the valley of Imladris and he was keen to be out on the road once more. He had visited the Halls of Lord Elrond on only a handful of previous occasions since their creation and on this most recent trip it had proven hard to mask his displeasure at finding the Halls open to not only the race of man but to the race of Dwarves also.

      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.

Summer has arrived and the Vale is as glorious as it can be, I can see Amorith ‘pottering’ in and amongst the flower beds, Anur warms the Vale and I observe many Eldar peacefully passing by, this day seems perfectly serene.

A man clad in grey offered aid to the mead company, he wore a hood and very rarely removed it. He was of a mysterious kind and he had born a star upon his breast. Folk around Bree knew these men as 'Rangers'. However this 'Ranger' had given the company no true name and they began to know him as 'Archer'.