Estarfin

It begins like this.

Slow, measured strokes ease the blood from the blade. The flickering firelight illuminates a face as smooth and expressionless as a statue. Long ages ago, she had wept during this ritual – purging kindred blood, night after night, from a blade stained with terrible deeds, wondering whether anything could be worth the destruction they had caused. But it is many years since Nirhen has allowed herself to weep.

Night was falling over Echad Dagoras, muting the color of the land into shadows. A quiet began to descend on the encampment as the elves of Vanimar settled themselves for rest after the long day of traveling. They had set out from Imladris under the cover of night and had not stopped to rest since then. Eliriael remembered the veil of night lifting for the arrival of dawn just as her feet splashed across the Ford of Bruinen.

Now Rainith has told us of her wounding during her brave battle with the Orc on the very borders of the wood, and how she stood between them and her Malledhrim friend, and suffered grave injury, almost losing her life, from the look of her. I am worried that she is too weary to travel, but she said she was not.

Sparks flew from the white-hot metal as the dark hammer struck it, the sound echoing through the forge. Ruineth leaned against the wall of the smithy, sweat pouring from her as she tried to catch her breath. Estarfin beat the hard metal with the heavy hammer, trying to flatten it into a blade. The metal cooled quickly though, turning from white to red to orange. He shook his head, thrusting the unfinished blade back into the forge.

Elloen's Journal, first page:

First of all, I do not write to my journal all the time. I only do that when I feel I have something important to remember. My mother Sírewen used to do so – but unfortunately I had no chance to take it with me, because it all happened so fast. But at least whatever happened to me in Middle-Earth, the Elves that are close to me will get to read about it later.

– Elloen Furinmír, Second Age 1708, Imladris

Return to Former Home

Coming hither from the ruined wood of Taur Morvith, eluding the orcish outposts under cover of the pervading darkness, we crossed into the Vale of Ash, and passed round its western side, the tower being on the hilltop in the eastern end of the wood.

There are fell voices on the air, the shades of unhappy men, or something far worse? Fear emanates from the black stone of this place, and few are those that would dare to approach it. Night has fallen, yet the stars are veiled, the only light that we see is the corpse light of the tower, illuminating nothing but the darkness. We know that we must press on, and yet we hesitate. There are few remaining upon these shores that could challenge us, yet we delay. Is it fear? I look at my companions, and I see no fear etched upon their fair faces.

Making their way along the gloomy paths of Mirkwood, the company pressed onwards toward their goal for the day.