Well, Diary, I suppose now it is true what people say, that one does not really know a person until one has lived with them.
That is, "with" in a very elastic sense -- for Captain Sáranassë has given me her own clean but spare bunk in Arrow Hall, and has taken to sleeping out of doors in a tree instead. She assures me she actually prefers it so. Rámarillë is clearly baffled by this. She circles one tree or another -- whether it be the correct tree, or no -- and honks very loudly into the air.
And then, there is something about the Captain that does not want to be known, perhaps especially by me. She is all grim purpose now, of course, but I learned quickly upon meeting her that all questions about herself, or her life before Bar-en-Vanimar, are nimbly deflected. She prefers red wine, when she takes it. She likes her dinners meaty, and her boot-soles thin. I have never seen any bow as perfectly maintained as hers, It is art, and her fëa is in it, I deem. It, too, seems not to want to be touched.
So this is where the captains of Arrow and Fountain have put me. It is strange that I worried so for the well-being of Lord Tindir, of my bosom friends Elvealin and Norliriel, of the Lady Ambassador and poor Carniquessë and Daeruth... and yet they may be safer out of the Vale at the moment than in it. May the jewels of Varda always guide them.
If I step out of doors, Telpenaro materializes. I always think of his cooking first, from the magnificent cakes he designs and executes for the Ball (one unfortunately crushed by Daegond when I was not watching him), to the simplest but most nourishing snacks. But now he too is on the alert at all times, putting off his chef's apron to be the great warrior once more. I watch his grey eyes scanning the area, looking, as we all are, for any deviation from the normal pattern.
Diary, I am cooped up, and my thoughts fall on strange patterns. I had Sarmëtecil copy patient logs going back a full turn of the seasons, once for Sáranassë and once for Himwen. As I read over them, I could not help but recall that mortal woman we treated for a broken leg. She, too, hated helplessness. She was not heavily muscled, but was a ball of fury at times, for that she might not bear weight on the leg for six long weeks.
It is strange -- she said she was from Bree-land, but gave her name as "Avanc." That does not strike me as a Bree-lander word. It is unlike most of the ridiculous names those people have. Where did I hear the name before her?
Poor Lothilind! By resembling me, she was caught in a net beyond her understanding, and currently beyond mine. It was the same killer, no doubt about it, and it cannot have been one of Durin's folk, nor of the Shire. If you excuse the graphic confidence, Diary, the stabs into her back were straight -- as into my brother's -- not upward, as from one of the small folk. How I wish he would arrive reembodied and break some things! Unfortunately, I guess he will be in Mandos for a very long time.
Someone had a terrible grudge against him, in the first place. We traveled together to escort Fëamíril and Gilinnen to their home in Lindon, so any mortal, from the brigands who set upon us to the strange couple whose house we used might have seen us together, and so the grudge might have transferred. And then fallen squarely on the gentle, harmless Lothilind in my stead.
Am I harmless, Diary? Am I truly? Tolmen will not feel so, as Curulinn and I, now without our dear shadow, must attempt to stretch his tendon.
This is all nonsense. I am just fussy and unused to living in a hunters' hall with the heads of unlikely and unnatural creatures projecting from the wall. I must learn to be more grateful for the friends who have thus imprisoned me to protect me.
O Diary! It is a loathsome affair.
