My Dearest El,
It has been weeks since I last wrote to you. Two months have passed since my last letter and I fear that this missive bears no better news. I have been gravely injured, and I am lucky to be alive at all. I thank the stars above that I was allowed to keep my life.
In my despair I set forth to the North Downs and up toward Angmar where the monsters run thick; I had had half a mind, it seemed, to drown my sorrow in any petty task that would come my way. Perhaps it would have been better had I drowned them in drink, but such ways were never mine own. I do not remember much of what happened now, for after I was injured I fell into a dangerous fever. I do, however, remember making my way into an orcish camp and engaging a group of the wretched things. After that, I remember nothing but a searing pain in my leg. My travel companions told me that my left leg was nearly severed from my body; we were lucky to have an Eldar healer among us who used her arts to save me and my leg. It is painful and I am weak; I have only just got the strength needed to sit up in bed to be able to hold a bit of parchment and a quill in hand.
I realized, in my fevered state, that -- no. I will not tell you the ramblings of a mind wracked by pain and sickness. That would be torturous to you, and I will not do that. Pay those words no heed; they have no meaning.
These, however, do: you are, El, the most precious thing that I have. Pray do not forget this, should you ever find yourself in despair and think yourself hopeless. Take care of yourself that you do not bereft me of your company in this world. I would be quite lost without you.
Every day I pray that you will be guided back to Bree safely. I pray it even as I write.
Yours faithfully,
Faelalan
