Dear journal, I had meant to write to you from a calmer place, and a more rested mind. I had not intended to leave the gardens of Lothlórien so soon, but the letters I received have been a stark reminder that, even in this peaceful place, the world continues to move, and the shadow that hangs over our home does not sleep. Two tragedies, too close together to ignore, have spurred me to move quicker: the loss of a friend and the breaking of a precious bond, and the near loss of another and near breaking (as I would later learn) of a second. I would like to say that at least the peace I felt in this familiar place stayed with me as I hurried home, but to be honest, I don’t know that I even slept.
Little has changed in Felegoth since I left. It remains a beautiful, quiet place, but one that feels starkly like a prison when I think of what this forest used to be like. I think sometimes of how it looked when I was a child, seeing it for the first time... Of how I used to be able to walk from tree to tree, looking up at the stars, from the south to the north. Of how my Lord Oropher always seemed at Amon Lanc, so strong and unconquerable in those days. Of how we were made to leave it, slowly, and were pushed back more and more and more. Oh how now, the Enemy is always waiting, lurking, trying to drive us away entirely, as my poor friends found out. Here. This far north, they would dare to come even now.
I could get no audience with Lord Thranduil despite my time away, busy as he likely was with the news. I could find no one with knowledge of Maurr, though I was regularly assured he was recovering and out of danger. I was left instead to wait, to go home and pace, in quarters too meticulously clean for how long they had been empty. But at last, after hours of restlessness, it seemed luck and fate were with me! While walking in the gardens, lost in thought and thinking to open you and write, I found a familiar face, lost in a book of his own and helping himself to some of the blooms in our gardens (though he did at least do an admirable job of trying to conceal it, in light of which I said nothing - not even to tease the poor fellow!) I’m glad that it was Master Maddoct I saw first - if he even noticed how I must have looked, he was, as ever, too polite to ask about it. Just seeing him, and how relaxed he was in Felegoth of all places, and with Maurr so recently in danger, was like a balm for my own troubled thoughts… And all the more so when I learned, after the patient himself emerged from hiding, just how worried Maddoct must have been!
Love! Love, between those two good Dwarves! Love, witnessed by their family, and sworn in a promise worn proudly on the beard of Maddoct (Mistress Rofda was very patient in her explanation of courting jewelry - I should have thanked her for that). Love, brought home as a gift by that caravan to the halls of Erebor. And, to my slight chagrin, love that seemed to have been obvious to all but me.
Had I not been so overcome with joy at their news, and at how clearly happy they were, I might have wished for the earth to open and swallow me up from embarrassment at having to have been so painstakingly guided to the truth! To be so unobservant… Everything looks so obvious now - the way Maddoct looks at him, worries for him, blushes at his typically loud, proud praise for his handiwork… And on the other hand, how clearly eager Maurr was to share the fruits of his partner’s labours with us in Imladris, and how rarely he strayed from his side! Even hîr Celebrinnir plainly knew, and said nothing (not that I blame him, it was not his news to share... But I still, somewhat unfairly, may have taken out some of my surprise on him...) I must have looked to them like a simple, naïve maiden… And not wrongly, perhaps. But… To their great credit, if they thought anything of the sort, it never showed, and my joy at their happiness far outweighs my own selfish feeling of embarrassment. I just hope it was privacy that kept the secret, and not concern over how I would react.
To hear their news put me in mind of many things, both joyous and sad. Love, in these times, is a moment of rare hope; a little point of light on a dim path. Just sharing in that joy was enough to ward off the worry that hung around my head only an hour before. For a time, there was just a simple, relaxed sort of peace in our little corner of Felegoth. I know it will not last forever. Tomorrow, I will ride out again, in search of another arm of the shadow over our forest that has crept too close to our last refuge, threatened travellers, taken the lives of dear friends. Tomorrow, Felegoth will again be a beautiful prison. But tonight, surrounded by a soon-to-be family of Dwarves, all four of them full of cheer, all of that seemed to be kept at bay (I only hope our Elven guests are able to find a similar peace, however briefly - Celebrinnir seemed troubled, and though he was absent, hîr Silwë’s name drew an odd reaction. I know it’s not my place, but…)
~~~
Here, the writing breaks off, and when it picks up again, the ink is darker, and the hand more obviously quick in writing, the letters more closely joined, if still clearly legible.
~~~
Fool of an elleth, Nínimil! Was it the exhaustion from searching in vain for signs of spiders? Was it the intrigue of seeing Elf and Dwarf speak so frankly and openly to each other? Was it the joy of Lady Arlis’s news (Amliri? Must try to politely pry more information on this from her, or from Bíld…) Why did you commit to this trip to Erebor, to a potential meeting with Bóurr and his family? Before, it was easiest to defer when Bíld mentioned it. But as always, that Dwarf has the ease and glibness of a Hobbit - a moment’s distraction is all it takes, and then he’s smiling (a more dangerous weapon than that little axe he sometimes carries, certainly…)
It’s silly, of course, to think that Bóurr would be anything less than the equal of his sons and daughter in his conduct and politeness. All three of them have the same sort of kindness, though it shows in different ways; the same friendly nature, the same light. But they are his children, and he is their elder, and from there comes my unease. Whatever Rofda, and Maurr, and Bíld will have heard about our people’s history, Bóurr will have lived - whether directly, or through his relations and friends. Others in Erebor will have, as well. Both of our people have done much to ease the mistakes of the past, and to make sure they never happen again, and Bóurr’s children are a sign of that hope… But I would be lying if I said it would be easy to see that mountain again, and to greet its owners as if nothing had happened.
I’m worrying too much, of course. I will follow the example of the Dwarves, and I will go: in friendship, and carried by the happy sights I’ve seen in Bree, in Imladris, and here in our own halls.
~~~
Here the writing abruptly pauses again, save for a brief bit of writing that has almost entirely been scratched out. The word ‘dress’ can barely be seen, as can ‘wine.’
