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Dear Doctor Olorin,
I know you would wave aside such overtures as unnecessary, but I find myself less eloquent in person than paper.
I know—though you assured me otherwise—that losing an assistant is inconvenient. Though I am by no means irreplaceable, I remain mindful of how your work will be hampered with procuring another helper. As I said when we spoke, I will do anything in my power to find someone who recognizes what a privilege it is to be your apprentice.
The date for our departure has now been set. We shall set forth on the fifteenth of June, only two weeks after my cousins depart. We expect to make slower progress, due to the number in our company—some of my father’s clerks and servants are keen to remain connected with him, and can achieve land ownership in the West—and will join the Feanorians at Ulmo’s Bridge. This is both a city and a bridge itself, and we shall acquire wagons and supplies from the Teleri craftspeople who inhabit the city and surrounding flatlands.
There are other ways to ford the Mississippi, but none so convenient. Other routes force travel by barge, or by rafting across in boats. The dangers of such crossings are many.
The Teleri are notably choosy when it comes to doing business. It took the combined connections of my Uncle Finarfin, along with my father’s reputation of fairness and diligence, before they would consent to take charge of the needs of our motley caravan.
Pardon me, sir. I know that you did not graciously discharge me from your service to be plagued with the details of our coming departure. Yet, I find myself sorting every detail over in my mind—it is terrifying to leave the lands and people I have always known, yet also highly thrilling. More than that, I think, I am mulling on the sudden reconciliation between my family. It brings me so much joy to believe it, that I chide myself for the occasional twinges of doubt I feel. Such things, in such times, seem too good to be true.
Again, I am indebted to you always—for your tutelage, your patience, your understanding, and the travel-chest of medicines which you gifted me.
Your servant,
Fingon Finwean
“What is this dreadful-smelling stuff, Fingon?”
“That is camphor, Argon. Put it down.”
Dearest Annabella,
My heart pounds fit to explode at the thought of writing you such a letter. I know that news has already reached you of the latest westward venturers. I know you have heard my name spoken as one of their number. Oh, how I would curse the man who told you, if I could! Word of this—which breaks so much, when broken—should have come from my lips. You should not have had to learn of my departure from a stranger.
Annabella, we are still young. This we have whispered to each other, have we not? We knew it when you kissed the posies I bestowed on you. We knew it when I secreted away a lock of your hair, one I still keep against my breast.
I would not have chosen to leave you, but still we are young, and still my father chooses for me. I wish not to forsake you, but nor do I wish to be forsaken by father, mother, brothers, kin. I am fickle and afraid: that is what you will say of me. Even so, I will write you a thousand poems on paper, and carry a thousand more of you in my eyes when I look upon the stars.
None of this will comfort you, I know. Perhaps it is not right of me to wish you comforted, when I am the source of your grief.
In such despair, I must be selfish. What I would give to see you once more!
Sorrowfully,
Maglor
“I sound like a simpering fool.”
“Macalaure…”
“I have written it fifty times, and the fiftieth is no better than the first! Had you no goodbyes to make, of the like? Had you no hearts to break?”
“What goodbyes I had to make, I said with my lips.”
“And what words did you use?”
“None.”
“You make sport of me. So be it—but I will not be a grousing fool.”
“Maglor, she is angry because she loves you.”
“And I am a coward, for I leave what I love.”
“You are not leaving us.”
“You were wise, Maitimo, to take your heart out of all such equations.”
“Wisdom like that is an ugly thing.”
Dear Miss Villette,
I know you to be clear-sighted, for when first we met, you looked past me and saw my brother. He is my better in every particular, and now he has surpassed me also in grief. Consider meeting him, I beg. His allegiance to our family is an allegiance we are all cursed with at birth, but you should not mistake it for a lack in his feelings for you.
He has written you a dozen letters, and thrown them all away. I am selfish, and cannot wish him to remain, but I do wish for his heart to be more at ease.
Discard this letter if you will, as a twisted display of that same selfishness—tear it, burn it, and cast every possible aspersion at me.
He does not deserve such ire.
Maedhros Feanorian