Imladris

Humming contentedly to herself, Uilossiel dipped her quill in the inkpot and began to write. She sat at her finely carved oak desk, gazing from time to time out of the window which overlooked the valley. Since she had returned to Imladris from Lindon, she felt complete somehow, as if there was a piece of her that had always remained in the Valley and had just slid back into place.

Aldúya, the 46th day of Tuilë, year 3008 of the Third Age.

She sat by the fire, in silence, the hall behind her quiet.  Alkawen often sat on the bench by the fire in Elrond's House East of the Sea.  It had become a ritual of sorts for her, a return to the familiar one might say.  Gazing into the flames was warmth and a comfort.  This evening, however, there were more in the fire than dances of flames. 

The following is a small scroll newly placed upon the Shelves of the Scholar's Stair. The Author you may not have heard of as anyone staying in Bree-town at this time, though the name is clearly Elvish. The hand-writing is neat with a quill-pen on parchment.

On the Calendar of the Elves
~ And ~
What Might be Considered to Improve It

Two years would pass since our time trapped within the Cave at Nan Tornaeth... Two years our relationship blossomed into something no one expected... and little approved...

The path North of Rivendell.

It has been several months since my untimely arrival to Imladris. The culture of the Elves is something you would not see in any of the cities or villages of Men.  Lord Elrond and children, Elladan, Elrohir and his youngest, Arwen would show me the same respect they would show their own kin. Arwen would seem to ask questions often, wanting to learn more on the Dúnedain than she knew already.