The date and ink are so old that the writing is hard to make out. It is written in an older dialect of Sindarin. The pages of the journal that have been written on are yellowed and weathered and warping on the edges. The fact that it is preserved so well could only be attributed to elvish conservation methods.
As I looked across the field of fallen comrades, I feel an overwhelming sense of loss. Seven long, bloody years were fought, and while the war is won, those who fell still linger in my heart. I am not given long to slip into my thoughts. Approaching me is an elleth familiar to me, and one that I am glad to see alive.
“Sister!” I cry out despite myself, rushing forward through my exhaustion to meet her. As I pull her into my embrace, her limbs are stiff, and she does not reciprocate. I pull away, my brows furrowing as I tried to understand. “Are you injured? Are you safe?” I question. I know she must loathe my worries for her, but I cannot help it. She pushes back her brown hair from her face, frowning at me.
“I am tired, Amathlan,” she says, and it shows in her voice. It shows in the weariness of her gaze, and the way her shoulders slump with the weight of all that has happened. “I am tired of battle, and of seeing my allies fall.” She does not give me a chance to interject my thoughts or sympathies. “I care not to see it anymore. I will go to Lothlorien, under Lady Galadriel, and there I shall remain a scholar ere I leave for the shores of Valinor.”
I, admittedly, was stunned. I always knew that we would leave Arda one day – most of our kin had already or had perished. Yet, I could tell that I was not ready. Foolishly I assumed that my sister and I would always ride together. That we would always do battle with the Shadow, joined at the hip. I could tell in her gaze that it was not to be. The intense grief that lingered in the air around us caused my words to fall silent in my throat. What could I say? Nothing would have changed her mind; I know this now. If I had known that then, I would not have said what I did.
I do not even quite remember exactly the words I spoke that day. I know they were harsh. I remember feeling abandoned, betrayed by my sister, and lashing out at her for it. It was not her fault. But I cannot take back what I said – and I will never forget the way her face twisted in hurt and offense.
I said things like oath-breaker and coward, and she called me warmonger and headstrong. I believe us both to have been unnecessarily cruel, struggling with the grief we felt, and with the guilt that we survived and so many others did not. In the end, she spat at my feet and turned away. I saw her march through the fields to leave with the Galadhrim, just as she said she would. I turned to Lord Elrond to return to Imladris with his followers. The bitter taste of Gil-galad’s death was still fresh in our mouths.
Bitterer still is the taste left in my mouth from how I handled things with her. We have been traveling to Imladris for a moon now. I was gifted this journal by a Man of Gondor before we left. This was the first thing I decided to write in it, for regret already consumes me. Though I may regret how I said it... I do not regret my feelings of hurt and abandonment. It will take time before I will reach out to her again, and surely for her to reach out to me. Will we speak again before she leaves these shores?
