Talkale

After all these days, fighting and spending our time in the cold, sleeping on the snow, feeling our bodies hurt  and cold the time has come to go back home... I went ahead to scout the lands and hunt, while the others were resting, most of them were injured. What I found upon my return I did not expect. It saddened and angered me greatly, and made me think too much of the future.

It is written that to whom a sword is entrusted you also entrust your life. Culufinnel held the gleaming sword up to the cold morning sunlight – it had a plain and unenriched blade, but it was well balanced. Even if the scholar Talkale were ready for such a weapon, not from his unworthy hands would he give it to him.

Having due regard toward the safety of our people and this company thereof, you are required to take your oath upon your sword, and give your promise on your word of honour ere the sword may pass from us to you. Swear it.

Talkale sat back in the leather chair, looking down at the letter with some pride. As usual the penmanship was perfect, the curved script that he used and the crisp, white paper pleasing to his practiced eye. Smiling with satisfaction, he read over the letter, sitting with his hands crossed in his lap.

Dear Lord Elrond,

In the morning I rose, and went to the Hall of Fire to dine with Sogadan.

The rain comes whispering, rising from the quiet of a still, cloudy day. I step off the porch, feeling the water gathering in the wet grass, running into my hair and over my face. The letter in my hand grows sodden, words running into trails of ink. The thirsty ground beneath my feet drinks deep in rain, welcoming the interlude. I move to my old, familiar, spot, standing above the waterfall, feeling the water slanting through the air, hearing it surround me. A childish gesture sends the piece of paper carelessly into the torrent beneath me, spinning out of sight in moments.

Talkale set down his thick stack of papers upon the teak writing desk, thumbing through them absently as he thought about the events of the evening. The names of various abodes of the Enemy flicked briefly before him as he thought of Parnard, that most dislikeable Elf that the Lady Rainith insists upon keeping at her side like an ill-tempered and poorly-trained hound. Yet she had asked him to treat Parnard with more kindness, and what choice did he have but to obey? Talkale scoffed to himself at the idea, for he was alone in the library at this late hour.