Cardanith

I stare down at the ring on my finger. Unlike the traditions of Men, we bear our rings on our right index finger. This is the one time I am grateful that I bear arms with my left hand; there is less of a chance of me losing the ring whilst swinging a sword. (Though it is not as if I plan to bear arms again anytime soon). 

I awake to the gentle chirping of birdsong, somehow loud enough to overcome the roaring of the waterfall which served as a soundtrack to my sleep. My eyes open to a briefly unfamiliar location, though as they adjust I am able to recognize it as the East Porch of the Last Homely House. The sun is making its path along the morning sky. 

Foolhardy. 

Drunk. 

Insane. 

“You are far too beautiful to love me.”

Even if things go well at first, there are always dips and rocks on the path. My words were sharp and covered in thorns, but as were his.

I honestly can not recall the last moment I was so furious! 

My anger raged and burned as Amathlan and I spoke. It has been ages since such fury rose. Though I am still trying to quell my anger inside, I also feel ashamed.

I suppose it was my fault in the first place, writing to Cardanith behind his back as I did. I should have spoken with Amathlan first. But what can one do, if they are worried? 

A hurriedly scribbled letter, folded unevenly and rumpled. It is roughly tied with a blue ribbon and the writing is barely legible it is so shaky.

To Cardanith, residing in Imladris

Hir Cardanith,

It grieves me to have to write to you. You do not know me, but your friend Amathlan is very dear to me. I know not if this will reach you, nor if you care to hear my words, but I must speak to you.

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.