Penned in the House of Healing,
In the Realm of Dorwinion.

Alas, I have had tidings that, though not ill, do not bring me comfort; for Iavasdir's messengers to Rhovanion returned yestereve, and neither in Dale nor Esgaroth were there reports of scouts lost in the East these past seventy years, nor did anyone recognise the likeness of me that they bore. (Though, in truth, it is not all disappointment, for the traders returned with some unusual merchandise, which they deemed -- to my delight -- would bring me good cheer: a small barrel of sweet galenas, and a wooden pipe besides!)

However, all is not lost, for the messengers to Eriador, Rohan and Gondor have yet to return; though I do not envy those emissaries who travel into the south-west of Endórë, for they needs must traverse the Brown Lands between Southern Mirkwood and the hills of the Emyn Muil, before crossing the Anduin into the lands of the Horse-lords and then southwards to Minas Tirith.

Now Ioriston tells me that Berennyr was aforetime a land of verdant gardens and golden fields of corn, for in days of yore when the Darkness came in the North, the Entwives of Fangorn crossed eastwards over the Anduin and there made gardens and tilled fields, for while the Ents were Shepherds of the Trees, the Entwives delighted in the growing of vegetables and grasses and flowers and herbs; and after Morgoth was overthrown their land blossomed richly, and many men learned their crafts and honoured them. But during the War of the Last Alliance, the Entwives were driven afield when Sauron ruined their land against the advance of the Allies down the Great River, leaving no victuals for their armies nor any living blade of green; and now the once fertile fields and orchards of the Entwives are naught but a vast and desolate unfriendly waste, brown and withered, without trees or even tussocks of grass.

Alas for the doom of all that is green and good against the evil designs of the Shadow.

This is much on my mind, for during these weeks of waiting I have spent my time performing light labour in the renowned vineyards of Dorwinion, in small repayment for the generosity of the Elves; and besides, I have found that keeping my hands busy in toil allows my thoughts to roam freely. And today amidst the burgeoning vines it was to the Aldudénië that they wandered, for it seems to me that the Dark Lords -- past and present -- both derive vicious delight in the defiling of the olvar of Yavanna Kementár: Sauron's devastation of the Brown lands, for instance, and Melkor's slaying of her greatest work, the Trees of Light; silver Telperion and golden Laurelin that she sang into being on the hill Ezellohar outside Valimar, which were watered with the tears of Nienna. And for years untold they lit all the lands of Valinor with their brilliance, but they were both destroyed in envy by Melkor with the aid of Ungweliantë, who consumed their light and drained dry the Wells of Varda; and these heinous deeds are told of in the Aldudénië, the lament that Elemmírë of the Vanyar made.

Then the Unlight of Ungoliant rose up even to the roots of the Trees, and Melkor sprang upon the mound; and with his black spear he smote each Tree to its core, wounded them deep, and their sap poured forth as it were their blood, and was spilled upon the ground. But Ungoliant sucked it up, and going then from Tree to Tree she set her black beak to their wounds, till they were drained; and the poison of Death that was in her went into their tissues and withered them, root, branch and leaf; and they died.

The Light failed; but the Darkness that followed was more than loss of light. In that hour was made a Darkness that seemed not lack but a thing with being of its own: for it was indeed made by malice out of Light, and it had power to pierce the eye, and to enter heart and mind, and strangle the very will.¹

And so it seems to me that as the Light of the Trees was extinguished in malice, so too was the light of my memory; though I deem that my mind was riven merely for the dark amusement of Sauron's fell lieutenant, Khamûl, my captor. But so as the days between the Darkening of Valinor and the rising of the new Sun were named 'The Long Night', so too am I in my own long night and I can only hope for my memory's rising sun.

 1. The Silmarillion, Of the Darkening of Valinor