Dear Diary,
Last night -- lasting no small bit into this morning! -- was peaceful but interesting. I saw hir Khalis before the gathering started, but he elected not to join us this week.
At first only Elloen and I stood in the Hall, close to the great fires. (Much of my meditation of late has circled around fires, and that their terrible destructive power -- O my childhood! -- and their power to illuminate, warm, prepare food for all to share, make friends of strangers... that these exist side by side. Ah, Diary, Themodir was once a stranger!) He awaits shipments of blue pigments of Lindon, for he is to paint a portrait of hir Anglachelm. Talking of duality, poor Elloen has faced a volley of competing suggestions: a bloody war victory in which our Lord hews yrch from horseback, or a portrait in which he rests thoughtfully at his desk. We had a good laugh over the notion of our Lord's steed trying to sit at his desk with him, or the head of one of the foul creatures resting casually as a paperweight.
Anon we were joined by hiril Lilleduil, of the Warband, and hir Anglador, who wears the burgundy of hir Parnard's folk. Anglador questioned Lilledui's wearing a blade into the Hall, given the long custom of leaving weapons at the door -- a custom our dear hir Daegond has long bristled at. I thought I had heard members of the Warband, given their highly specific duty, were exempt from the traditional prohibition. But Lilledui said she had simply taken up wearing the blade everywhere of late, because of that outlandishly speaking Vanya who showed up in the Hall a few weeks ago and displayed what he said was a Morgul-blade (why, then, did the blade not melt when it touched light?) and said he would use it to make us all march to the defence of Bree. Really! Diary, I had good parents. My time with them was short, but they raised me to be gentle with others and not so much as rude by accident to the other little ones. Forcing other Quendi to come to the defence of a Man-town leagues away from danger... it is not the way I, at least, was taught. Lilleduil, because of this stranger, feels the need of more defence than even her very protective pet swan can offer.
As we talked, first we heard an unseen singer (I have learned that if one stands behind the statue of Gil-galad, facing a certain way, one can be heard in every corner of the Hall even if one whispers), and then, to peals of laughter, we found ourselves covered in downy white feathers. It was Elvealin the light-hearted, up on the balcony! She came down, having her swan with her also. We learned that hers is female, Lilleduil's being a swan-sire, and made silly remarks about a double wedding.
Oh -- talking of that -- Elloen suggested Imlad Gelair as a location for the ceremony. I like it for its beauty, but is it big enough? I must see how many can comfortably stand inside. It would make for a grand procession in and out, certainly.
Late in the gathering, a Man came in. I think his name was something like Ioachan -- his tongue was not familiar to me. Indeed, he was a Southron, although he claimed to have been living outside Bree-town for the last year or so. He struggled a bit with Westron, but not terribly. He had an interesting smooth brown skin-tone -- must ask hir Laurelindo why none of us have that, or do some of the Kinn-Lai? He played several songs of his homeland for us, mostly in C minor. They were in an odd tuning, suggesting that the shape of lute-like instruments is different in the south, but elegant enough that we danced a song or two with him.
Hir Aglador whispered, in the Old Tongue, that this Man should not be trusted. I wonder what ill he sees in this Second-born -- this one more than others? He is no Númenorean or even Dúnadan, but he seemed gentle enough for one of his race. I have seen worse. He implied he was fleeing the conflict in the East, not joining in with it. Of course any one can say any thing, that is true; I merely wondered at the sudden and absolute nature of what hir Aglador said.
I do not remember the name of the other newcomer, Diary, I am sorry. Perhaps I should slacken my consumption of the Dorwinion White! She was a fair young elleth with the black hair of many Noldor (though not my gentle silver stag! If I could paint like Elloen, I would surely try to render his grey eyes). She was a pleasant girl and I do hope to see her again. I unfortunately had to retire just after she arrived -- a row of milk-thistle cuttings were ready to plant; someone had to do it, and hir Laurelindo had taught me the art of it. I sing to them about their great destiny of clearing an afflicted body of toxins. I'm not joking, Diary, it helps!
What of the flowers, Diary? Themodir always drinks red wine, red as blood, and I the white, for the color of sea foam. But are those colors fitting? Ought the red be a gentler pink?
