Tancamir

This is written on two sheets of neatly folded parchment, sealed with a drop of brown wax imprinted with the head of an arrow on it. The handwriting is neat and precise, not in the slightest ornamental, though in some places it loses its crisp shape as if the writer's hand was fatigued. On the outside of the parchment is written the name of Lord Dolthafaer, to whom it is addressed.

To Lord Dolthafaer of the Order of the Arrow, Bar-en-Vanimar

Tancamir sat crouched with his back to the wall of the ruin, fire crackling in the distance. Before him lay a worn but clean piece of parchment, as well as a battered leather-bound journal covered in scrawling notes. He sighed.

She had been planning to go rejoin her old patrol for this, their final night in the forest. She knew they were still near enough to reach, to the North of their planned stop - Erion's failed attempt at a signal had told her as much, and she'd appreciated their careful eyes keeping watch over her progress, as she led the healers back to Echad Sirion. The paths they'd told her about made the journey entirely quiet – only a single warg scout had interrupted their travel, and Caethel had dispatched that easily enough.

Remember.

She might already be dead.

Remember.

It’s your fault.

A tree, another one, the swamp, the lights... Seven days and no findings. My hands, my bag, my phials, all empty.

The sound of Elvealin’s crystal bell pendant. Norliriel knows I do not want to go back yet, I am sure. The crystal bell, once again. Norliriel’s hand is on my hands. I feel woozy.

I have to ask. “How much more do you think we can keep looking?”