Rîeg, that is, 'crown of thorns'.
It is odd, how memory and emotion sneaks upon the unwary. In the long hours of the day in which I have to myself in the maise without Rivondir, Lamaenon, or our new ward. I pass it. In contemplation of old music and poems, in slow circling of the grounds to appreciate the peace, in slow organizing and cataloging of the inventory of the House.
It is during the last that I found a thing that brought memory creeping upon my brow, in lines and frowns. In my things, in a large trunk that has been moved to make space for a rather intimidating stuffed bear, I found the wreath of nairëlen-blossoms my great-grand-father had showed me how to weave. Her voice comes to me then, assuring me of their lack of fading against my insistence that they simply could not bear the light of day on these shores.
.. she was right. Against my knowledge, they cling stubbornly to life, still glowing faintly with moonlight. I wonder if perhaps she was right about other things.
This is the last entry in the faded journal.
