The letter is starch and clean. There are no bends or marks on the envelope. It is sealed close with the mark of House Elrond. No return address is listed.
The handwriting is elegant Sindarin. Nothing is written in Westron, or any other language. It is meant for eyes that can read the elven language only.
To Amathlan, at the headquarters of the Company of the East Road.
It is with a heavy heart that I must write you this letter. Though I know I can communicate to you through shared dreams, it is not the way I felt best to deliver this news to you. There will never be a proper way or time to deliver this news. I can only hope that with a detailed explanation of what happened, to be read and understood again and again, that some may peace may be found in it. When we last spoke, I informed you that Mallossel was due to head east on a journey. What I did not disclose to you was that she was traveling straight to Mordor, on a self-proclaimed quest to retrieve the spear of Gil-galad with a set of companions. They took the pass through Eregion, intending to travel through Moria.
It was to my understanding that on this journey they were to take the path from Tal Bruinen. From there they were to follow the path from Gwingris to Moria. The party intended to travel through Khazad-Dum, to assist in clearing the place of Orcs and other fell beings, and then on to Mirrormere and Lothlorien. They left on their excursion just before I last spoke with you. I did not realize at the time that they had left in the early dawn of that morning without a word to anyone - and had changed their path to go up through the Misty Mountains. If you were not already made aware, we are not encouraging travelers to go by way of the Misty Mountain pass. Goblins and Orcs with fell weapons, and Wargs with their hazardous bite now freely and boldly roam the slopes of the mountains.
According to what the party has told us upon their return to Imladris, they had stumbled upon a goblin encampment. They were quickly overrun and outmatched by the sheer number of goblins alone. It is described to me that in their plight to get away, Mallossel remained behind to fend off the goblins so that the others could flee.
Amathlan, I hesitated for as long as I could in writing this letter to you. Yet, today, the scouts have returned with the body. Mallossel is dead. I do not know if she released her fëa to Mandos or fought until her last breath, but her spirit is no longer within her body. I am so sorry. There are no words I could write or speak in your presence that will likely soothe this pain. I will not make this letter long. We will attempt to preserve her body for a time if you should wish to ride to Imladris and say your last farewell. Though, remember you will see her again one day.
Cuvallorn, your long-faithful friend, and sorrowed messenger.
Cuvallorn sighs with a heavy heart as he sets the quill aside. It haphazardly splatters ink on spare parchment as he does so. The minstrel holds his head in his hands as he bows over the letter. He quickly folds it, neatly, and tucks it into the envelope. There is no flourish as he presses the wax seal down to close it, to affirm the words that he had just written were true entirely in their content. He stands and sets the letter on a small table by the door of his room, so he does not forget to have it delivered in the morning, and sits back down at his desk. It would be a week, if not longer before Amathlan received the news. He feels his hands begin to tremble against his will, against the sturdy wood of the desk. He remembers the day he met the siblings, dying on the battlefield of Dagorlad. How they had fought so viciously about their futures. About how Mallossel and Amathlan each would write to him in Imladris about the other, too prideful to speak directly for fear of being seen as weak. He thought how that for an entire Age he had been encouraging them to speak, to let old blood lie and to move on. How they would never have the chance now, not until Amathlan passed from Arda.
He thought of Mallossel's long dark hair, how it fell over her shoulders, and how her gray eyes glittered with the thought to sail west when she had first returned to Imladris. Then the resolve when she said she would go east and fight.
He thought of Amathlan and the fiery red of his hair, how it blazed like the pride in his eyes. How he had spent so long among the Mortals that there was little elf left about him, but what was left was devoted to the search of his sister.
His two best friends.
The next thing he knew he was crying, he was sobbing, because life is not fair, and it should not be fair, but that does not make it any less damningly painful when we feel slighted.
