Her red box of memories

27 Yavannië: Letter from Leoba to Morwen

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Minas Tirith, 27 Yavannië IV3

It is very nearly my last day in the City and I keep thinking how odd it will be odd to go back to Pelargir. It has been a long time since I was there; at Serinde and Carandil’s wedding which must be twelve years ago now. Mind you, I’ve only seen the pair of them the one time since, when we all met up here in Minas Tirith after the siege was lifted. I’m rather looking forward to getting to know her a bit better – I know you two have been close for a long time – and of course becoming acquainted with my nieces and nephews and I am greatly in anticipation of catching up properly with my brother. The boys always were wonderful at looking out for me when I was little and I must confess I am rather looking forward to being cosseted a little and having some respite from cares for a while.

You really don’t need to worry about me. You say you knew the half of what I wrote in my previous letter before you received it, so what has changed? I can trust Dirk with my life and so should you. He has given his word that he will give everything to stick on the straight and narrow. I believe him.

Do you really need to ask if there were good times thereafter? There most certainly were, the very very best of times…. The intimate details of which are certainly not for divulging here!

But I know you will fish for details so I must spare you some of the pain that I know all curious people (myself included) suffer from and gift you some titbits. We travelled to more than one festival where I plied my craft with fellow bards. There are some tremendously talented players on the performance circuit and I have yet to win a competition, but in playing all together, there is a magic cast. On such a night we were all gathered in Rhudaur in the far north of Arnor. We bards had woven a tapestry in song, telling tales of ages long passed and mighty kings and elf lords who had long since departed these shores: the notes lingered in the chilling air and I could easily fancy that the heroes of old romances were listening and not so dead. It was late: the fires blazed bright and high, sending sparks up towards the Valacirca above. It was clear: the velvet skies were bejewelled with all the stars. It was late in the year: Menelmacar, the swordsman of the sky hung low on the horizon. It was a perfect night and Dirk and I retreated away from the throng. We sipped honeyed mead and gazed up at the heavens, pointing out to one another the constellations we knew. Good good times.

Our last journey together was a ride south from there, back to Minas Tirith. We had been staying at the Lucky Fortune, an inn on the great east-west road that runs through that north country, where we took up with a small band of adventurers. They led us into some dreadful scrapes. As you no doubt know from Calion’s rangering in Ithilien, if it is anything like the rest of Arda, there are still a lot of displaced peoples since the War, some of them less savoury than others. I am not fond of orcs, even less so when they are refugees and vagabonds! Yet amongst the bad, there were days that were sweet and good and times of dalliance of which very precious memories are made.

And there I must pause. You must know enough by now to understand why Dirk is, will always be, the only man for me. Please don’t try to persuade me otherwise; it will fall on deaf ears I promise you!

Tomorrow I shall celebrate my birthday quietly; Bardy has arranged a picnic I think. Then I am leaving on the first day of Narquelië so please do reply to me at the Pelargir address. For all that I miss my love, I am greatly looking forward to being back in the deep south again: the beat of the drums and the fire of the music, the wine, the sun-ripened dates and of course, my family.


Written by leobavorima

January 18, 2013 at 11:31 pm

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