Fingolrin

She had been planning to go rejoin her old patrol for this, their final night in the forest. She knew they were still near enough to reach, to the North of their planned stop - Erion's failed attempt at a signal had told her as much, and she'd appreciated their careful eyes keeping watch over her progress, as she led the healers back to Echad Sirion. The paths they'd told her about made the journey entirely quiet – only a single warg scout had interrupted their travel, and Caethel had dispatched that easily enough.

My dearest Norlië:

I hope you can read my cramped writing on this tiny parchment, and that Lille's eagle finds you in relative safety.

Remember.

She might already be dead.

Remember.

It’s your fault.

A tree, another one, the swamp, the lights... Seven days and no findings. My hands, my bag, my phials, all empty.

The sound of Elvealin’s crystal bell pendant. Norliriel knows I do not want to go back yet, I am sure. The crystal bell, once again. Norliriel’s hand is on my hands. I feel woozy.

I have to ask. “How much more do you think we can keep looking?”

(( This part of story has been written together with Norliriel. ~*~ is a divider to mark the point of view.))

 The watchful eyes of the lone sentry found her as soon as she stepped out from the shadows of the trees, but he only nodded, eyes flicking to the stitched mark of her company on her arm, and gestured for her to pass.

As she moved closer, one corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile, and he remarked: “You're getting sloppy, Cae. Saw you coming from miles away.”

Oh, Diary! How long have I been unwilling to touch your pages, to record what has really happened?

Sparring in Rivendell. Ráolor wearing a blindfold

"Again!"

This letter is written with an exceptionally narrow nib, yet still the Tengwar are somewhat sloppy; the document was created in haste.

Delossad.