windswept

Sometimes, Adiwen and Altor met in the great hall, sometimes in the garden, allowing the crisp morning sunshine to inspire their efforts. 

Today, they were seated in the garden. Altor was reading passages from a book and she was supposed to write down each word. Adiwen felt her pen scratching the paper painfully slow. His voice was as clear as always, but he seemed to be reading faster than usually. And yet, she had only transcribed a few sentences. 

As she predicted, the young lord of Cliving didn't join the rest of the men on their hunting trip. Instead, Lord Altor sat at the back of the palace with an open book on his lap.

"My lord Altor, may I join you for a while?" Adiwen asked politely.

He raised his eyes from his book to see who was talking with him. "Have you ever waited for anyone's approval to do as you wish before?"

Adiwen walked fast through the great hall of Edoras; it was quiet today and her footsteps echoed in it. The Prince and the King had gone hunting and of course, the whole Palace had gone with them.

She was in an agitated mood as she considered if she had made a mistake. She probably had to go with them. If she was to be a Princess and future Queen of these lands, she had to try harder to ensnare the Prince. At least, that cocky, hair headed, high pitched laughing woman from Aldburg believed she could join the men on their hunting trip and she had done so.

He pulled the hood up a little higher on his head while he sat huddled around the fire, looking over to Cynhaer with a grin. "Lucky to find you, traveler. I'd be face down in the scrub of these parts... How did you find me all the way out here?"

Cynhaer smiled and looked to Baralinion and placed a hand on his. "Luck, and by the seven stars. The Lady sent me. Alkawen still moves in these lands but she is far and to the north, in the lands beyond the Vales."

(A continuaution of In Your Room, part 1)

Some few days after the company’s return from Angmar.

A flutter of fabric, over the stairs. Cloaked. Hooded.

---

The Forest floor,

Rot rises in puffs of smoke,

A carcass lies, or one that's almost;

Breathes a final breath.

Each day, biting, this breath leaves him;

Gentle fingers curl and twist his bones -

A sum of roots, chewed and eaten...

Grief on show for unkind eyes.

---

Watch him, watch.

Twisting, curling, spiting out

The dying breath

From lungs of mold.

Watch him, say:

"Remember, one so little.

Remember, oh so young.

Remember

The cold winds of the Misty Mountains whip around the small camp with a howl and a hiss. Although the company is braced against the face of a cliff in an attempt to protect themselves from the howling chill, it does little to warm them once night falls and the stone they sleep upon turns frigid. Tucked away beneath an overhang, apart from the rest of the group, sit a pair of elves huddling together for what little warmth to be found.

This letter is written in neat handwriting, even though the rows are never evenly distributed along the piece of paper. There is an ink stain between the second and third paragraphs. It seems to be the seventh in a series of letters.