Estarfin

Our first day back in Imladris is almost over. I am not certain what I think. The Vale is as beautiful as it always was. Little seems to have changed, but then I have not been absent for so very long.

Faces have changed somewhat. There are some I look for who I have not yet seen, and many I do not recognise. But I have encountered a few old friends.

It came to pass that the three elves reached the Valley of the Cleft as the end of the year drew nigh. Long did they gaze down upon the refuge until the daylight faded and lamps were kindled along the streets to guide their steps towards the Last Homely House. There the elves would soon assemble together at a sacred Festival of rejoicing, and a great fire was stoked inside the Hall: here might those weary in mind and body find succour. 

(Four weeks before the Dragon.)

Despite the passing of Ages, I remember it well. 

"When I swore my oath of service to the Lord Caranthir my mother gave me a silver comb. They were both so proud that day, her and my father." Estarfin smiled at the memory, realising that he had not thought of that day for many long years. "My father gave me a knife, but that was lost in battle long ago. It was nothing special you know, but it meant a lot at the time." Estarfin lapsed into silence, staring into the fire and thinking of his family.

‘Beautiful hair’, his mother had called him, and rightly so. Though it had a will of its own, when brushed and combed out it was a thick wavy mane that any would be proud of. 

“It is like dry twigs,” he had said to me when I first set comb to it. Nay, it took but a little patience to restore its vitality.