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

While Ioriston did well to divert my thoughts away from dwelling on the doom of my hapless friend, yet still I wonder if his fëa spirit now tarries within the deep abode of the Halls of Mandos in Valinor, awaiting the will of Námo to surrender him unto Eru's Timeless Halls beyond the circles of the World; or if by fell sorcery he is instead cursed to linger in the Unseen realm of wraiths and shades. Alas, O Fëanturi, however can I learn his fate?

Such were my dark thoughts as I pondered the map of Endórë Middle-earth gifted to me by the Lambengolmo; for while there are some names written upon it that I know, they are but few, and many there are that I do not recognise. And I am flummoxed: how can it be that I can readily recall traversing Eryn Galen on my road to Rhûn, but naught of my passage ere that, nor afterwards? In frustration I took my temples between my hands and shook my head fiercely, but then a small sharp gasp caused me to look up into the wide eyes of an astonished Elf-child, so young as to be barely of age for Essecilmë.¹

   "I think something has come adrift... did you hear a rattling within my head?" I asked him gravely. His surprise instantly turned to mirth, and he laughed high and clear as a bird.
   "My pardon, Aldaquen. Lord Iavasdir asks that you attend him directly."
'Aldaquen'... I recalled Ioriston saying that I had been so named by the Telelli.
   "Thank you, my child," I answered, "And while I am with our lord, please aid an old man, and look about the floor to see if you can find the wits that fell so embarrassingly from my ears?" Again his piping laugh; and giggling, he feigned to search under the table on his hands and knees while I gathered up my map and made to depart.
   "Aldaquen?" the child called, and I turned to see his small face bursting with mischievous merriment. "I deem your wit is within your beard!" he cried.² I smiled and laughed, for so it was.

It is indeed heartening that despite the Shadow ever growing in the South, there is yet such innocent and unbridled joy in the world, and I left the House of Healing with a lighter heart.

Lord Iavasdir was in a somewhat more serious frame of mind, for Ioriston had told him of my plan and the Elf-lord thought to offer me counsel with its regard. He reached for my map and stood studying it with interest while he spoke:
   "The Lambengolmo has counseled you, wisely I deem, to undertake the study of the divers arts offered by the craftsmen of Dorwinion. Now there dwells alone in the quiet hills that fence your friend, the forest, a master of Deep Lore, that which we call angol; for he is a gollor of profound skill, and it is my desire that you learn all that you can from him, especially in the art of ósanwe."
I could not conceal my surprise at his words.
   "I... ósanwe?" I stammered aghast, pointing to my breast.
"Come now, did you think to keep it secret?" he laughed, "Nay, Mithfang, long have we kept watch in the western woods of Dorwinion, though you would not espy the marchwardens. For many among my people here are Laegrim of the Nandor, who aforetimes dwelt in Ossiriand ere Beleriand was broken and laid waste in the War of Wrath, and who kept themselves by wariness and secrecy; skills which are a boon to my realm, for ever are we wary of the enemies of the Free Peoples that dwell in the East and in the South."
   "Aye, I recall the Laiquendi of old," I sighed in understanding, "Though I know not how. And also the Great Battle on the plains of Anfauglith between the hosts of Valinor and Morgoth; the greatest war ever fought in all of Middle-earth that ended the First Age of Arda."
And unlooked-for, the furious clamour of war sounded within my mind as if a memory long-forgotten; a memory I could not possibly have, but which drove me to fall upon my knees in anguish. Blood and death and violence so great that it clove the land asunder.
Startled, the Elf-lord guided me to a chair, into which I gratefully fell weeping; but the recollection of the merry young messenger prevailed upon my senses, and with it I regained my aplomb.
   "Forgive me," said Iavasdir, though he looked at me keenly.
   "Think nothing of it, my lord," I replied, "Merely an unquiet turn of my dotage, no doubt."

   "Very well," quoth he, and pointed to the map he still held in his hands, "I would not gainsay Ioriston's counsel, but there is, I rede, another source of wisdom you might well consult, though it is not upon your chosen course."
Intrigued, I forgot for that moment my distress.
   "Here, east of the Hithaeglir, between the Celebrant and the Anduin, lies the realm of Laurenandë, that we name Lothlórien, the Golden Wood, wherein dwells Alatáriel, whom is Galadriel in our tongue, the radiant Lady of the Galadhrim, the greatest of the Calaquendi who yet abide in Middle-earth. It is my thought that you might seek her counsel, for she is eldest and wisest of the Eldar of this Age, save Círdan of the Havens."

1. "The Essecilmë... usually took place at or about the end of the tenth year." - J.R.R. Tolkien, Morgoth's Ring
2. Perhaps this doesn't translate well in Westron, but it is quite an intricate jest in Sindarin.