Vanimar

Orithil, 62 Laer

Another new journal. This one was made here, beautifully bound in the leather cover of my old journal, which Sergelon is keeping for me. I can smell the scent of Imladris on the pages, a warmth like summer that I hope stays.

Quiet. The last remnants of those departing had left a few days earlier. Even the oldest had joined this time. Himwen had seen the cave emptying, had seen the Men carry what little they owned out of this dark, dank place, to a world they barely had seen. To go south, to a part of Arda they perhaps never had visited. And still, with brave hearts and deep determination, they had taken charge of their own destinies and pushed forward. In her quiet contemplation, she pondered about the consequences of their kind taking that stride now. They would be there when she and her kind would not.

Upon approaching the hill and the narrow path, Himwen noticed two things. The camp seemed to buzz with excitement. Rangers greeted her as she ascended the slopes, some of them she had spoken to previously as she had joined them on their watch against the shadows many an eve. Slumber did not replenish her as it had before the encounter with the Good Captain and keeping a watchful eye was the best she could offer. The second thing was how empty it now looked. They were quickly removing any trace that could be found of the camp itself. Were they really leaving?

A letter is delivered to the house of healing, addressed to Lady Manadhlaer, in the last week of the month Gwirith.

It may not be as elegantly written as one of her own, but the flowing handwriting of Ealendil in the form of the Tengwar common to Doriath of old, is quite distinguishable.

Dear Lady Manadhlaer