Work Text:
June 14, 1851
Dear Galadriel,
This is no letter, in truth. It is a page from my journal, but I intend to show it all to you when I see you again. Or perhaps I shall tear out the pages altogether and send them to you when you miss me a little less.
We left today in a hubbub. The hubbub, specifically, was that Turgon arrived hand-in-hand with the daughter of Father’s secretary! Her name is Elenwe, and I only tell you that because they are married. I think poor Father has had enough shocks to his system to last him a decade, and he turned a variety of colors while Turgon made that awkward serious face he always does when he is trying to appear grown-up. Elenwe is a little blonde slip of a thing—no offense to the golden-haired, my dear—and I don’t know that she can do much else but cling to Turgon’s hand.
Turgon’s. Hand. Lord! How embarrassing.
Turgon said that they would be claiming one of the wagons as their own, and that meant Fingon would have to share with the rest of us rather than driving his own. Those of our household, as well as a friend or two of Father's, will fill out everything else we have.
I can hear you asking—did Turgon marry this Elenwe person solely to vex Fingon? And the answer may well be yes. Anyway, they have rings on their hands and Mama is very grieved that she could not witness the wedding and Father nearly cracked his jaw but we could not delay.
As you know, we are traveling by private coaches to Ulmo’s Bridge. This gives Father something to trade—the Teleri agreed to take the coaches—along with the gold he sent with Uncle Feanor. I think it will be very bumpy spending weeks in coaches and disreputable inns, but my excitement remains unquenched.
What if I were to tell you, Galadriel, that I had found a husband? And was planning to spend our wedding night at an inn??
Fingon is looking my direction and I cannot let him catch me talking about wedding nights. He thinks me innocent and ignorant. But then, he probably thought the same of Turgon!
June 15, 1851
Well, we’re off—one day past. There are six coaches carrying all of us—my whole family, your brother Finrod, and then two dozen of Father’s associates.
Rest assured, I cried last night until my pillow was wet, missing you.
June 20, 1851
Dear Galadriel,
There is nothing of real interest to write about. I imagine our cousins—damn Celegorm—had a much more romantic journey, camping under the stars. The coach is stuffy, Turgon keeps interfering in my attempts to befriend Elenwe, and Fingon often rides alongside us which is vastly unfair, seeing as Mama will not let me do the same.
July 4, 1851
It is Independence Day. I am not writing this to Galadriel because Galadriel is here. I am so angry that I think I shall call her Artanis for the rest of time.
Now, I am not angry at her for hiding in one of the supply carts and sneaking food from kitchens, but I am angry that Father insists that I had something to do with it! I did not, though I imagine I was no help in portraying my innocence by commenting on how very impressive it was for Artanis—only fifteen! A year younger than I!—to accomplish such a feat under the noses of grown men.
Anyway, she is discovered now and Finrod is deeply concerned. So is Father, of course. But neither of them can send her home; not until we arrive at Ulmo’s Bridge, at least, and are among friendlier faces.
When I am done being angry, I shall be thrilled. Oh, the fun we’ll have—for surely, we’ll be able to convince Finrod not to send her away in Missouri.
Surely.
July 15, 1851
To save money, we have taken to camping under the stars a bit. Turgon and Elenwe always make their little nest at the edge of the grove.
“What fools,” I said to Fingon, just the other night.
He laughed. “It would be nice to have a sweetheart, I suppose, to build a home with in the west.”
“Maybe we’ll meet some of Finrod’s native friends,” I said. I could imagine liking a man with beads in his hair. I hoped that Fingon would be horrified but he wasn’t. Fingon is not so easy to fight with as Turgon is.
Mother does not sleep under the stars. She spreads her blankets on the seats of the coach. She says the night air is hard on her—but I’ve never breathed anything sweeter.
July 29, 1851
They’re gone. They’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone. I could write it a thousand times and it would not make it any easier for me to believe.
July 31, 1851
Poor Fingon. Poor Father. I think they are the two who’ve borne it worse than I have. Fingon took so much convincing—and a black eye—before he believed that it was our family who burned the bridge. Our family who killed fourteen city officers.
Fourteen.
Aunt Nerdanel is here. I saw her, and I wish I hadn’t.
I think Fingon cried. I won’t speculate more; I can’t bear it. Just as with my aunt, I can’t bear to look that kind of pain straight in the eye—which I suppose means I’m a terrible coward. He thought of every other explanation that might have cleared their names, he talked until I’m sure his tongue was tired.
Father, of course, knew at once.
August 1, 1851
This is the day that should have given me all the happiness in the world, all the freedom. Instead we have no wagons, no supplies, no money.
The Teleri are no longer convinced that they should trade our coaches for wagons. They hate us. And what could we say, to convince them not to?
Damn Celegorm. Damn Maedhros. Damn all of them.
They’re all gone.