CRIMSON CLOISTER
Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon
56 Hrívë in the Reckoning of Imladris
Four months. Even by Elvish reckoning, it has been quite a stretch of time.
For four months I have secreted myself in my tower, the enchanted doors of the Sanctum preventing any disturbance, interruption, or even visitation. I have descended from my tower only in the deep watches of the night, when none should mark my passing or presence, to eat or rest or take in the air of the Enclave.
It snowed last evening, a rare occurrence here in the valley of the Lhûn; but much as it had years past, during my former cloistering when Cutch was presumed dead. And during that time, I asked myself the same question I ask now: Why am I doing this?
Well, what else would I be doing?
My Household’s most recent Expeditions, though the latest was some time past now, have all the same yielded a trove of lore and artifacts which has consumed my mind and haunted my dreams. For I pursue the answers to a truth, whether ugly or bitter, and that pursuit will not release my will from its inevitable and dreadful conclusion.
My family is abroad. I have dispatched my faithful Sûlpadron to bear my summons to my vagabond husband and son. And here, I confess to having usurped my daughter’s bird as well. Bainiel now holds as her companion-bird an eagle, no less than one of the fledglings of Sûlpadron himself, upon whom she has bestowed the name Ithililt, “Moondance”. Upon their return, I shall send forth both Windwalker and Moondance, father and daughter, to bear my summons to the rest of the Household.
It is long past time that the Household sits in council. I would speak with my family, my friends, once more.
