amathlan

No matter which way I lay on my bed, I cannot escape the dull ache of pain in my shoulder. I feel a quiet hiss of discomfort pass my lips - though I am still grateful, as it is not nearly as pained as it was before I allowed Ithilwe to treat it.  Perhaps recounting my day until this point will help lull me to sleep...

*There is a large package with a simple note tied to the top.

The letter reads:

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To Amathlan, formerly of Gondolin, From Ithilwe Lomelindion....

The paper is stuffed haphazardly into the journal, as if it was torn out and reluctantly threaded into the new book. The Sindarin in which it is written is shaky as if the hands writing were trembling. 

This is the third and final entry of a series. Read part one here and part two here. 

Do you fear leaving? Or do you fear being left?

This story is a part of a series. Read the first one here. 

The first thing I heard was the crashing of waves along the shoreline. The sound was hypnotizing but arrhythmic, no true pattern to be discerned as the ocean crests and falls. It soothes a longing in my soul. I heard the cries of seagulls as they flew overhead, sharp and piercing, but familiar. 

An address is written in exquisite Sindarin, then again in Westron. It is likely in case the letter drops from the sky, as the parchment is rolled and tied with string to be sent by falcon.

The pages of the journal are weathered and worn. The yellowing of the parchment speaks to its age. The pages are brittle and delicate but have been treated with care to still be in a legible condition. The text is faint from the aging of the ink.

The date and ink are so old that the writing is hard to make out. It is written in an older dialect of Sindarin. The pages of the journal that have been written on are yellowed and weathered and warping on the edges. The fact that it is preserved so well could only be attributed to elvish conservation methods.