The rain seems unending ... the horses restless as we wait, wait, wait. I am tired of this rocky cave, tired of the grey misty view, tired of waiting for Randir to return, tired of wondering where Araenion is.
Where he is, what he is doing, whether he is hurt ... I know his bravery and his abilities, but always the worry. Sometimes their lives seem so fragile, and my hopes founded on sand ... and always, always seeing the tide approaching, waiting to wash this away forever.
Naruvir came too close, before we left. I like her, a great deal, for such a short aquaintance. I would like to have a friend that i can speak freely to; Aldalin is caught in the affairs of her household, and Galvathalion, Cironael and Anglachelm are certainly not maids. Galvathalion would nod silently, Cironael would be gently concerned and Anglachelm .. would shout, as he always does. And only a maid knows what it is to be a maid ... they would not understand.
But what could I say to Naruvir? Rumour must remain as rumour.
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