Themodir

Aldúya, the 49^th day of Lairë

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The tramp of steel-shod boots grated upon pale flagstones as Makanárë strode up the path, face grim. Overhead, the stars glimmered pale and distant, while the closer lights of Imladris blinked and faltered  in the cool breeze. Her steps did not waver, feet leading her up a grassy knoll until she stood beside a simple cairn, newly made.

So spoke the Kinslayer,

Mindful of hardships,

Of fierce slaughters,

And the downfall of Kinsmen.

Oh, Diary. Will the bleeding of my heart never cease.

I stood at the cairn today -- I go there daily, and speak to my darling of trivial events in the Valley, but today the remaining members of the campaign to the Hithaeglir returned. Each paid their respects in their own ways.

Oh Diary.

Faörie did not attend the funeral, though she should have. She did not speak the words she wished to, but there is no one to speak them to now but Themodir who is gone.

Before the cairn she stands, fixing her gaze on a memory of her own loss. She did not know Themodir, but to lose one's own kin returns the sorrow she felt from long ago.

Kneeling over the cairn, she pulls out a small nut from her pouch gifted to her by Ancalasse. She grips it and lowers her head onto her fist, closing her eyes.