Diary, I tell you truly, never have I wanted Lord Tindir's steadying hand more than I do now. I am no military commander, but a mere shipwright's daughter, steered by fate to these shores. Tindir is overly silent and reveals nothing of his plans until he springs them upon us, but he is not wrong. I have begged Himwen to send no message, for his plans must succeed. He must not fail in his current mission. Indeed, I deem no raven could reach him. He is probably feasting with Thranduil right now, clinking a merry glass together, for no king of Sindar blood could fail to see his true heart.
And yet -- Himwen is here. Sáranasse is here. And still my liege, and my sisters in all but blood -- the Lady Ambassador, Elvealin, the mighty Norliriel -- are possibly safer out of this refuge than in it. What a funny riddle, is it not? Think of Ealendil and Maedhrathin, so widely parted now, yet perhaps each better off than if they were here together.
Diary, I would tell you the story of this evening. I think I have told you before of Nautiel, who either does not or cannot speak. I have learned the meaning of many of the signs she makes with her hands -- but tonight something was different. She is usually a carefree, even childish girl, who loves to sit upon the great tables of the Hall. Not even Daegond acted so... we will not discuss his astounding powers of destroying the furnishings. But surely you know what I mean. Nautiel is a free spirit, a roamer of the woods, who does not hunt but forages the safe mushrooms and gives her bounty as freely as she came by it. Mischief delights her, little pranks. I have never seen her act crossly toward anyone.
But tonight... tonight she came in with her hands, nay, her voice, terribly blistered. She accepted some salve but would not take the jar, and stated that she had been "practicing, just in case." Sáranassë says that Nautiel's motion was that of wielding a spear. I have not been watching Himwen or Telpenaro train enough, apparently. What can Nautiel have meant? She was... Diary, she was moody. At times she simply folded her hands and stared off into a time and place I could not see.
And then at last, she asked everyone -- or no one -- what sort of Man would fletch an arrow the way Maedhros did. And having said thus, she departed.
That solves exactly nothing, Diary. A descendant of the Houses of the Edain? Maybe an Easterling who captured some arrows? Or did she mean an arrow that had been fletched with one hand? Because I know someone whose hand was hewn off in battle. He has lately been stalking about my prized rose-bushes. Only Silwë is both deprived of a hand and likely to remember how the sons of Fëanor the Cruel crafted weapons..
Regardless, Nautiel has plainly had a closer look at an arrow than anyone could desire. And that means nothing good. No one practices warcraft until their hands are wrecked without some pressing reason: that much, at least, I have learned.
Sáranasse says that she too would know such an arrow if she saw it, but that does not even render us able to make a good guess without looking at the thing, which Nautiel did not have with her -- or did not show.
All that is known is that a foe hides among us in the Vale and in the Trollshaws, and while Earcalië and Losgael and the other Hammers are doing their very best despite all of the lords being unreachable, something gave our forest-spirit a credible scare. And something brought poor Lothilind low.
O Themodir! Whatever happens to me, I wish that I may not bring shame upon you. If now is my hour, let me face it bravely and bring honour to Vanimar.
