Imladris

This story is a part of a series. Read the first one here. 

The first thing I heard was the crashing of waves along the shoreline. The sound was hypnotizing but arrhythmic, no true pattern to be discerned as the ocean crests and falls. It soothes a longing in my soul. I heard the cries of seagulls as they flew overhead, sharp and piercing, but familiar. 

An address is written in exquisite Sindarin, then again in Westron. It is likely in case the letter drops from the sky, as the parchment is rolled and tied with string to be sent by falcon.

Back in Imladris, things are much more peaceful. We found, but then lost the nazgul in the wilds. It seems this task is doomed for naught but failure. But I will not dwell on that for now. I will rest here in the peace of the valley until duty calls once more, though I wish for a longer rest. 

After I arrived back in the valley, I made myself look presentable before reporting to Hir Elrond. I am sure there will be more to do soon, but I will make well of the time I have to spend in the valley. I visited the libraries and mindlessly picked out a book to read.

The pages of the journal are weathered and worn. The yellowing of the parchment speaks to its age. The pages are brittle and delicate but have been treated with care to still be in a legible condition. The text is faint from the aging of the ink.

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.

If I had not decided before, then surely fate has now. I have been wrapping up business in the land of men here on the west side of the mountains. I will stay a week or so more. But I have been preparing to leave for Imladris. 

Mellon, 

I hope this letter finds you well in your travels. The sons of Hir Elrond have come back to Imladris recently and given word that you had not sailed. We hope that this decision does not bear on your mind to heavily, as we know you had wished leave these shores. Even so, the lord is grateful that you have chosen to remain. 

The Dwarves of the Iron Garrison wait anxiously for the return of Seregrían, the Elf-scholar who they now regard as one of their own. Three days have passed since she followed the merrevail in a red rage to the peaks above Khazad-dûm. Bori and Svanr bravely tried to follow but halted at the gate of Zirak-zigil and kept watch, not daring to go further.

This diary is dated several days earlier.

I’ve sat on this bed, in this room, for three days now. After having been chased through the Lone-lands by all sorts of fell creatures, I was attacked by a Warg. In the Trollshaws!  These are dark times indeed if such beasts would come hither to the lands so close to Imladris.