Restless, the Elf looks up from her carving and towards the west, to the fading sunlight in a sky of vibrant pinks and oranges. After a long moment, the bow stave, unfinished, is placed aside with a sigh as she turns away from it and towards a table, on which rests an untouched glass of wine, a candle, and a little, long-neglected notebook, bound in leather and fastened with a cord. After a long, thoughtful sip and a glance over the mountains in the distance, Nínimil picks up both the book and a quill, sits, and begins writing.
~~~
Dear little book, why is it that I only ever seem to turn to you on the eve of some great departure, when my mind, like some springtime sparrow, is flitting from branch to branch without rest? Was it Mithlond when I opened you last? Seeing the sea for the first time, seeing those boats, and then feeling as though I was swimming upstream when I left? More and more of our people make their way West each season, it feels, and yet - for now, at least - I am drawn ever to the East, back to the forests of my home.
And yet… Despite what lies ahead of me, I cannot help but feel a tinge of hope as I leave Imladris. In my short stay here, I was lucky enough to meet many good folks, from far and wide. Some I had met before in Bree or elsewhere, others for the first time in Lord Elrond’s domain, and while I would be up all night were I to write about them all, I feel as though I should at least remark on some of them, to make up for lost time.
The Hobbit Padparascha, for example, found me soon after the departure of Kromnir, the Dwarf from Ered Luin with whom I shared much of my journey from Bree to Imladris. He is in many ways what most people must think of when they think of the Naugrim - somewhat quiet, and definitely gruff - but I feel there is a great depth to him that he may just feel uncomfortable sharing in my company. I don’t blame him for that, either. In contrast, she - who considers herself to be almost like a daughter of sorts to him, for reasons she’s not yet shared with me - is certainly neither of those things. With her shield and spear, and her open love for ‘adventure,’ I imagine she must seem very odd in the eyes of her kin, not to mention anyone who has spent much time in the company of the small ones. That one is destined for bold things, little journal, mark it now - if only she can temper some of the impatience that drives her.
I also had the pleasure, while here, to meet two young Elves (from the Woodland Realms no less!) who seem to have only recently decided to join their lives together. It gives me great hope in these times to think of the love hîr Cedmon and híril Mormerildes have for each other, and how it supports them. He is a cautious (if, according to his betrothed, stubborn) sort, and she an adventurous one, and so they balance each other wonderfully. They plan to set out soon for Evendim in search of silver, according to Mormerildes, so that he may make rings for them both; bought silver will not do! I can only hope such a blessed journey is swift and safe - I dearly wish a long happiness for them both.
And then there were the Dwarves - a whole caravan full, with their companions, bound for Erebor through the pass above Imladris. I could fill these pages on that company alone! I have rarely had the chance to speak at such length - and certainly not as openly or pleasantly - with Dwarves, but if this band ever took offence to my awkward fumbling, they showed no sign of it, and were wholly friendly and welcoming from the moment of our first meeting in Bree to their departure this morning.
I sometimes worry that the good Bíld, son of Bóurr of Erebor, must think I’m shadowing his every step, with the number of times we crossed paths… Though, in my defence, he can usually be found at the centre of most gatherings. As outgoing and expressive a person I’ve never met, be they Man, Elf, Dwarf, or Hobbit, and he seems to be friends with nearly everyone. Oh, and to hear him sing! Do all Dwarves have such voices, when it comes to song? I cannot fathom the likes of, say, Kromnir bending his voice to song in the same way, but they are different voices for different people: one is sturdy, unchiseled stone, the other is polished, glittering silver. He sang of Eärendil that first time we met, and I felt as though I was back looking up at the stars under the boughs of the Greenwood of my youth, and not in the noisy confines of the Prancing Pony, warm though it was. I had the chance to hear him sing again amidst the rushing of the waters here, in the company of an Elven musician, and I could swear their songs are still in my ears now…
...Along with the fanciful tales of his brother, Maurr, that is! Even someone meeting them for the first time would know them to be related; it makes me wonder what sort of Dwarves their father and mother must be! I only met him for the first time while here, but while he seems more… Martial than his brother, Master Maurr is no less capable of telling a tale. He also seems to be more familiar with the recent history between our people than his brother or the others, but, at least to me, he was always jovial and kind. I do wonder if, at some point, we will have a more frank and open conversation about that, but for now, if the extent of our conversation on the matter is limited only to him making jests about Dorwinion wine and my love of it, I’ll still be content. It was a good, refreshing seedling to plant in the soil by a Longbeard and an Elf of Eryn Lasgalen. If tended well, it will grow, in the fullness of time.
Much of that, of course, may depend on the ability of the others in that company - and here I think principally of Master Maddoct and Lady Arlis - to keep up with him and pull him out of rivers and the like. (I jest, but…) Master Maddoct in particular often seems to go red in the face when Maurr begins talking about their adventures, or when someone else talks long about Maurr’s own exploits; I suppose because he must be thinking of his role as that group’s healer. He did much the same when Maurr decided to show off that wondrous prosthetic hand. I suppose that was a misplaced sense of humility, but Maurr’s words were nothing short of honest - how can one call themselves a mere tinker when they create such an intricate, artful thing!
Though I have come to know Bíld, Maurr, and Maddoct to be open and talkative conversational, I was pleasantly surprised to have the chance to speak more to Lady Arlis while she was here (and hopefully to make amends for some of the discomfort she must have felt at our first meeting). I suspect that, as one of the soldiers of the group, much of her time will be spent looking after the others, and so I was glad that she suffered me pulling her aside one evening to ask question after question about their route and their preparations. If it was a burden, it was one she bore gracefully, and it developed into a rare opportunity to simply talk to her, one to one, about everything and nothing. Arlis has such a wonderfully wry sense of humour and good nature that she keeps sadly hidden most of the time, but I dare to hope that we parted that night with at least the beginning of a friendship between us!
To see them all safe and well in Imladris was a relief, as was seeing them off accompanied by hîr Celebrinnir and hîr Silwë. While I cannot claim to know either very well, it does my mind no end of good to know that they are with that fine company. Maurr and Arlis alone could see the caravan through the mountains and the Dalelands, I’m certain, but even Bíld’s boisterous and cheerful brother could not hide his thoughts on passing through the Forest Gate… And as much as I would like to pretend his concerns are overblown, I do not disagree with him, and I do not begrudge him his caution.
Of the two Elves, I deeply regret not asking more when I had the chance - their names ring faintly familiar, in that way that the names of all ancient Elves do, and both would seem to have some familiarity with the Woodland Realms. I have no doubt either, from the way they carry themselves, that they have seen their share of war, but if we ever found ourselves on the same battlefield, I have no recollection and certainly doubt they would, either. If we should meet again, perhaps I should try to ask more… But it always feels improper to pry, especially when, as in Celebrinnir’s case, great effort seems to be spent on not speaking of past sorrows.
At any rate, I rest easier knowing the Dwarves will be able to rely on them under the trees of the Woodland Realm.
Let that be the final note for now then, little journal, and let more sombre thoughts wait until next time. Tomorrow morning, I will set out with the sun towards Eregion, with the hope of taking the Pass there into Lothlórien. I have already asked that any message sent back to Imladris be forwarded on to me at one place or the other, though I don’t plan to delay too long at either place. As much as the golden realm of the Lord and Lady brings me a sense of peace, and as long as I would like to linger there again, as I did on my way Westwards all that time ago, I intend only to stop briefly to rest, resupply, and speak to the craftsmen there. After that… Whether across the river thereafter and eventually north through Mirkwood, or swiftly up through the Vales, the road can only lead home.
