Danel

I heard a knock on my door and when I opened it, my uncle Fëamíril was behind it since he had finally arrived from Lothlórien. We has down for a cup of tea and to talk about a thing or few. He asked me why I hadn’t painted for such a long time, but the reason it something that I’m not willing to openly admit yet. ”I need more pratise,” I answered. ”No artist is truly ever finished and perfect.” It was vague, but it was also true and something that I believed in, also for myself.

It is nigh time we ride down to Mithlond, to prepare for Lady Istarnie's voyage.

Curumaito plans to discuss preparing a gem elixir with Carnifinde later this day. He is unsure what is possible; what is safe. Even if he decides to go ahead, such things can take days. I cannot risk the Lady missing the ship. There is no assurance that particular gem will have the virtue to return her to health. Valinor remains her best hope, I deem.

Danel,

It was with great sorrow that I learned of your departure Westward. Sorrow, but not surprise. Ever since that night years ago in Mirkwood, I have been expecting this day. You told Belegos that you would not sail, that you would linger on beyond your time here. I think he believed you, perhaps you even convinced yourself? I am not gifted in the ways of seeing the truth of the hearts of others, but I could see that your heart was not in your proclamation.

A clean cloth. Or what used to be a clean cloth. It was now covered with dust. The whole room smelled like distant memories, as if someone had not occupied the space for a long time. And it was true. It had stood empty for a while now.

She had taken it upon herself to clean it, as it felt like desecration of a holy place to let someone else in. She knew it was folly, of course. The lady Danel had left for the Havens, and would not return. But the idea that she might one day reappear kept Tingruviel busy tidying the space.

He looked up from the sprawl of dusty pages that lay strewn over the desk in front of him, rolling his shoulders to loosen his tired muscles. He let out a small, mirthless laugh as he registered the unconscious action; even reading could hurt him now. He reached for his glass then realised that it was empty.