Chronicled in Mithlond in the realm of Lindon,
On this the 54th day of Iavas in the Year 3018 of the Third Age.
And so tomorrow heralds my departure from Mithlond, and the start of my journey east along the ancient Great East Road. Whither I go I know not, but I deem it is time to leave the city of my birth, for there is naught now that would keep me here since Adar perished and Naneth left on a white ship to Valinor. Besides, as the Time of the Elves wanes, I see ever more of my kin pass through Mithlond to leave these shores forever, and watch as the hallowed ships leave the harbour at sundown never to return. Never again in the life of the World will I have the chance to wander the lands of Ennor that I have yet not seen, and many there are that I have not.
It seems fitting to me that I set out to travel during the enderi, the between days that belong not to any season, for I too am between the autumn and fading of this season of my life, and on the morrow I will belong not to either the past or the future.
But today I can afford to dwell briefly in the past, for I cannot say that I am glad to leave the Grey Havens. As I write, the sound of the gulls and the Sea bring me comfort, as is their wont. Being born on its shores, I am fortunate to not bear the sea-longing of my inland kin, but I wonder how it shall be to leave behind the song of Great Belegaer. As I follow the Lhûn into Eriador will I yet hear the voice of Ulmo in the music of its waters, and what of the eastern lands far from sea and river?
O! My love of Mithlond is heightened all the more on the threshold of quitting her solace. Home of my childhood, my memories of you will ever grow fonder after our parting! Sweetest of all, the remembrance of Ioriston, my father, and my time spent learning lore at his knee: his joy while teaching me Fëanor's Tengwar and the Cirth, his mirth at my childish attempts at Rúmil's Sarati; the smell of books and parchment and ink in the Great Library he attended; my delight when sometimes the other children listened wide-eyed to my tales of yore, and when they laughed with me and named me 'Parvion' in jest. For never was I close with the hîn of Mithlond; while they danced and sang and played in the forests, I could instead be found curled in a corner of Adar's library (for as a child I thought of it as his own) lost in a copy of Ainulindalë or the Valaquenta, or reliving the adventures in the Quenta Silmarillion.
Savo hîdh nen gurth, Adar.
I recall also the soft voice of Ýridhremes, my mother the healer, as together we explored the forests in search of the plants and herbs of her art; the tenderness with which she would remove leaf, flower or stem, and her delicacy in their preparation as salves and tinctures; my awe when she showed the power of her fëa while treating ailments not of the body, but of the spirit. For she it was, in the hour of my birth, who with the strength of her will foresaw my destiny and named me Angollon, son of Deep Lore, and called me gollor-to-be. Long shall I endeavour to fulfil her vision.
Law firo i laiss e-guil gîn, Naneth.
But now I need return to the present, for Ithil rides high in the sky, and I must get what rest I can and gather my strength for the morrow. Books, map and provisions I have packed, and my staff and cloak stand waiting at the door.
Sevin chûr.
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