Penned in the House of Healing,
In the Realm of Dorwinion.

"The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;
The leaves are falling in the stream, the river flows away."¹

Thus are the words of a fragment of song that echoes within my mind; whence it comes I do not know, but it is timely. For summer has waned, and though the days are yet bright with Anor's armar warming the vineyards of Dorwinion, a crisp wind blows down from Ered Mithrin in the far North; the green and golden woods are turning to red and amber, and my friends the trees shed their bright leaves in deep drifts upon the forest floor, heralding the oncoming cold. Hríwe úva véna!

It is hard to believe that it is now wellnigh a full coranar since my coming to Dorwinion. The asta of Yávië is ended and so too is the toil of the harvest; the ripened fruits of our labour are now pressed, and their sweet juices stored within great barrels of oak to ferment into the heady vintage of renown.

Likewise the three days of feasting and revelry of the enderi have been and gone, but the celebration of Iavasmereth was for me bittersweet, for while I shared in the joy of the abundant harvest and the merrymaking of my hosts, Lord Iavasdir's messengers to the West had lately returned with tidings that within the abodes of Men there were none that had recognised my likeness, nor had they any report of a Man such as I going forth into the lands of Rhûn these past years; save in Bree, where there was a rumour of an old man who journeyed with a small company of Casári to Erebor in the north-east of Rhovanion some seven-and-seventy years ago. However Ioriston tells me that this tale -- and the identity of that old man -- is well known to the Eldar who dwell east of the Mountains of Mist.

Now is begun the asta of Quellë² or Lasse-lanta, which is called Firith by the Elves here, and there came to Dorwinion three visitors who hail from distant Mithlond: the great harbour that lies on the shores of the Gulf of Lhûn in Eriador, from which the Eldar ever and anon departed across the Western Sea to the Blessed Realm; emissaries who brought greetings on behalf of the Master of the Grey Havens, Círdan the Shipwright. And when Ioriston told me of their purpose yesterday, this name brought a sudden gladness to my heart, though wherefore I know not, for I recall neither that name nor the Elf-lord who bears it; but yestereve my familiar dream revealed also another place from, I deem, the deeps of my broken memory: a long grey firth and a great seaport with a weathered ship lying in harbour, and upon the quay a waiting figure... tall and silver-haired, ancient and wise; a bearded Elf-lord!

I awoke this day with teary eyes and an unlooked-for memory of my lost friend, whose face has not haunted me in a long while; for though the countenance in my olor was not his, it brought to my waking mind the certain knowledge that it was I, alas, who swayed him to accompany me upon our grim journey; it was I who led him to his doom.

Thelman mana awantengwe?

Thelman mana tullet?

1. The Fellowship of the Ring, "Farewell to Lórien".
2. ((Astute readers will notice that my reckoning does not accurately correspond with the real-time calendar; this is not an oversight, merely literary license for the sake of effect.))