Vanimar

Since returning to the vale after spending some time with the sons of Elrond one of whom he had served alongside with for many centuries his spirit still seemed restless. Even practising the age old sword patterns long ago burned into his muscle memory did not settle him. The sword patterns are a few memories that have remained with him when many others were lost that fateful day.

Anáwiel was lying motionlessly on her back in the grass, her hands resting on her chest, silently admiring the stars above. The moon hadn't risen yet and apart from a few clouds the night sky was unobstructed and visible in its full glory. The seven stars of the Valacirca looked especially bright that night.

He was still young when it happened. Once united and mighty, they were divided and weakened. Factions were established, swords were forged in secret and dark whispers spread; words of treason and rebellion. Lies. It had been Morgoth who sowed the seeds, but the Noldor took care of the harvest.

They had bitterly paid for each their wrongs.

Somehow things had changed. Friends were bidding farewell, for different reasons. As she watched some of them leave the valley through the open window, all she could hope for them was that their journey would bring them someplace safe.

She took a short step forward towards the vacant desk below the window. Her dress forbade any wider movements. The grey and gold silk robe she had worn for such a long time felt heavy like armour. Would she have need of it? She smirked, thinking she should stop wearing mouse-like raiment and perhaps clothe herself in more vivid colours.

Lord Anglachelm,

Pray forgive me for not seeking you out in person, but a personal matter of great urgency demands my immediate departure from the Valley and from my post as Arrow Lord.  It is my hope that this errand will be brief and my return swift, but should that not be the case, I leave the Order of the Arrow in your capable hands to command as you see fit.