Imladris

“Regret is a most powerful motivator indeed.”

“Regret for some, resolve for others. Hope for the rest.”

There were fell voices on the air. Whispers that I could make no sense of. The wind was cold and biting against my skin. It howled and moaned in my ears, but still, the whispers were tangible. My feet cannot move through the snow. Is it snow? Is it something else? I cannot move.

a sequel to this story

It is not often that I get to take a long breath. A deep breath. Usually my breathing is marked by the dire straits of adrenaline in war, or by the choking pressure on my throat of pride and anger. For once, I can breathe freely, and all is well. The air in Imladris is fresh and without fear, and it is welcome in my lungs. 

I stare down at the ring on my finger. Unlike the traditions of Men, we bear our rings on our right index finger. This is the one time I am grateful that I bear arms with my left hand; there is less of a chance of me losing the ring whilst swinging a sword. (Though it is not as if I plan to bear arms again anytime soon). 

A small package wrapped in soft brown leather cloth, sent by warriors and messengers from Eregion, all the way to Lindon. The year? 1450 of the Second Age.

-----------------------------------------

To Ithilwe, Warrior of Lindon

From, an old friend.

------------------------------------

Ithilwe,

I awake to the gentle chirping of birdsong, somehow loud enough to overcome the roaring of the waterfall which served as a soundtrack to my sleep. My eyes open to a briefly unfamiliar location, though as they adjust I am able to recognize it as the East Porch of the Last Homely House. The sun is making its path along the morning sky. 

Foolhardy. 

Drunk. 

Insane. 

“You are far too beautiful to love me.”