Themodir

Dear Diary,

Well, it is all done. Daegond of Gondolin lies in a cairn alongside his oath-brother, my husband -- I took a stone from Themodir's to put on Daegond's. No more will he break furniture in what he called the "Hall of Lies." No more will he sniff new recruits to make sure they are sufficiently respecting me. May Lord Namo give him at least the mercy of forgetting all he saw, heard, smelled at the sack of the White City.

I do not know where to start. At the first glance Daegond might have been strange, crude and even mean to a person who did not know him, but he had more than meets the eye. Profound loyalty to those he protects. The reasons why he was behaving the way he did. A softer side which the Noldorin (or any) warrior tries so hard to hide under their shell of steel.

All I have in my mind are the scenes of meeting him.

Dearest Themodir --

Do you remember that day, where you are now? It is five years since that terrible day. So little time, merely an eyeblink. 

I remember it exactly. I do not know why, but I was wearing a white dress with matching roses in my hair. I think I must have been looking forward to your arrival home from the mountain assignment. A simple supply run, you said. 

14 June

My only love,

I have blinked, and five years have passed since I held your hröa in my arms, long after your fëa had sped to Mandos. 

It makes me happy to imagine that Lord Ulmo pulled the blue rose given me by hiril Gilinnen, mother of Elvealin, and which I set on top of the surf at Lindon, along the Straight Road until it came to the shores of the Blessed Lands, and to think that there it came to your hand. For you would know at once who sent it and what it meant.

I heard a knock on my door and when I opened it, my uncle Fëamíril was behind it since he had finally arrived from Lothlórien. We has down for a cup of tea and to talk about a thing or few. He asked me why I hadn’t painted for such a long time, but the reason it something that I’m not willing to openly admit yet. ”I need more pratise,” I answered. ”No artist is truly ever finished and perfect.” It was vague, but it was also true and something that I believed in, also for myself.

Diary, Diary, Diary. I have so much to explain.

Through the yéni, the Vanyar and others have nurtured a song that, when sung to one asleep, heals the fëa through dreams. One travels, often in the form of an animal -- some soar as eagles, or even sea-birds as if they had taken form like Elwing. And one sees, or does not. One looks upon Valinor. 

So it was that I loosed my girdle, unlocked the door to my house, and lay down in bed to let my mind wander. I had one question in mind, and only one.

While Loth i Lonnath pushed ahead to recover any kinsmen that might be scattered to the south and west, the Orders of the Hammer and Fountain followed at a slower pace, with the Hound -- Sergeant Daegond -- tracking the yrch that may have been responsible for the shocking murder at the Ford of Bruinen.

Dear Diary,

I have neglected you so. But things have happened, many strange and perhaps terrible yet wonderful.

Manadhlaer remembered well the time Lord Elrond himself had had to be summoned to the Houses of Healing for a Perian with a wound even she and Norliriel together could not touch. When the great Peredhil emerged from the poor little thing's chamber, he had looked drained but briefly reported that the patient would survive, and athelas steam would not go amiss until the small body regained consciousness.