Estarfin

Estarfin,

It has been a long time, my friend, and I am not all together sure if this letter will reach you still at Imladris, but I do not know where else to send it.

My dearest Eliriael,

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.

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.

Some time ago

He wiped away more of the dark, sticky blood with the back of his hand; trying desperately to keep his eyes clear. He moved quickly down the slope, careful of his footing on the steep rock. He paused in his flight, taking a moment to look around his surroundings. He spotted a hollow between two large granite boulders and moved towards it as quickly as he could, grateful of the shelter it would provide. Sliding into the dank space he tried to catch his breath. He strained his ears, yet could hear no sounds of being pursued. In truth, he had not been expecting any.

The map had made no mention of this place. A looming stone shape stood before him, dark and forbidding. He dismounted carefully from the bay mare, ensuring his boots made as little noise as possible on the loose scree outside the squat ruin. He whispered a word of caution to the tired horse, patting her mane as he did so.

*Written with Nirhen [Rainith]*

He spat a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the patchy grass of the training field; his lungs burning from exertion. His limbs felt like lead weights and sweat ran from his brow down his face. He looked at the blunt training sword laying in the damp grass and steeled himself for the effort to reach down and pick it up.

She was suddenly aware of movement nearby; a presence that she had not been expecting. Looking up from the grinding table, she wiped her face to remove the flakes of impure iron from her skin and wondered what had woken her. Looking around she saw nothing untoward. Her tools were laid out haphazardly around the workshop and the forge-fire had faded to a dull red.

He sat quietly in the wide hall; his dark eyes surveying the scene in front of him. A large gathering was taking place, although his presence in it was coincidence rather than planned participation. A feast had been prepared and mounds of food, bottles, flagons and glasses of liquid stood upon the groaning tables. The fires of the hall had been lit, and the sounds of musicians warming up and preparing to play filled the air with a delightful sense of anticipation. It had been too long since his heart had been gladdened so, and such magnificent company eased his troubled thoughts.