Letters from Middle Earth

[Rosie Gamgee]

That letter was so funny!!! I love it.


QUOTE=Telcontar_Dunedain]Rosie Gamgee, are there anymore of Nob's notes?[/QUOTE]
Um, yeah, somewhere..... I'm ripping through Elendur's letters at a frightening pace- almost done. Then I suppose I'll get back to Nob. Apologies to all the fans- . Bear with me here. Elendur and all the rest won't let me go!!

[Rosie Gamgee]

Here's the next of Elendur's letters. Read and enjoy, if you will.


21 June, 3018

Dear Tirithel,

Sister, you have been keeping secrets! And from me, your brother! Tirithel, what is this I read in your latest letter (it arrived only a few minutes ago, and I have just finished reading it)? You have found love! But with whom? Will you add insult to injury, sister, and reveal to me so late that your heart belongs to another- and yet not tell me his name? I hope fervently that he is a worthy man. You mentioned he is a captain- but where, with whom? Do I know him? You said you gave him Mother’s ring for token of your love? At least by this he should be recognized, but I have not seen the ring on the hand of any here. Dearest of sisters, how long have you kept this secret from me?! I am dying to know all- stop riddling and tell me his name, at the very least!
Alas, sister, for this joyful news reaches me at a perplexing hour. The Captains Boromir and Faramir have gone away to Minas Tirith, leaving me in command of the outpost in Osgiliath. Your letter reaches me here. The sons of the Steward have gone to the City to unravel the hard words of the dream that I wrote to you of. You may have heard of that by now. They both spoke of heeding the voice in the dream, which said: Seek for the Sword that was Broken, in Imladris it dwells. Where this land is I know not, and I am loath that either of them should go in search of it, for both men are needed here. It will be the decision of the Steward, and I suppose Faramir will go, as the dream has come many times to him, and only once to Boromir. When the Captain-General returns to command the company, I will be transferred to the Rammas Echor for a time. I am glad of that, for on the wall I can look into the distance, toward the City, and pretend I can see you looking for me, also.
Life here is arduous. We are building up the defense in Osgiliath: strengthening the walls on the River, barricading the whole west bank. Many fair buildings once inhabited by happy people in a more peaceful time are being torn down, their stones needed for the new ramparts. It makes me sad, Tirithel, for the Citadel of the Stars has become a rubble-heap, an unbeautiful pile of stone and wood, stained with blood and tears. Happy noises have not been heard here in many years, and yet the silence of the streets is better to hear than the cries of wounded men, or the low, anxious murmuring of soldiers starved for hope. For still, sister, hope is fading. No more do we keep vigil over the Nameless Land. The word war is spoken often, and more than often is the cold reality of it felt. Battle and rumour of battle are always upon us. The enemy sacked the east side of the city before a company could be assembled to drive them off. Now troops are moving constantly through the west bank, ever more men being sent off to rid Ithilien of the foul creatures that flood it. Few return. I used to look toward the Ephel Dúath and watch the flicker of fire playing on the black clouds that hang low over their peaks. No more, Tirithel. A cold shadow has stretched even to Osgiliath, and it snatches hope away. All men turn their heads away from the Black Land, unable to bear the frowning mountains and the black clouds. And yet they are always watching us.
Thank you for your words of comfort, sister. Hope has not returned to my spirit- it is impossible here, I think- but at least despair is deferred from its place for the present. The gap is filled with a kind of peace, Tirithel.
Now I am being called away again. Command is cruel, sister. For though I am allowed more parchment and ink, so many more things are to be written with them, and there is barely any time to do so. I will return to finish this letter if I may.

I am thankful that paper is more patient than trouble. Two men were killed in the building of a rampart this afternoon. A scaffold gave way, and one of the soldiers fell from its height. The other was pinned beneath a pile of stones that fell on top of him- he died before we could lift the heap off of him. The twain were buried with little ceremony. Life- if this hellish existence is to be called such- goes on- though it seems senseless to loose men to our own stupidity. At least they might have died with more honour on a battlefield.
It has grown dark since my writing of the first part of this letter. The west wind blows outside, heavy and lifeless. My only comfort in it is that the very breeze that flutters the tattered banners over the rubble-heaps may have fanned your fair cheek where you sit at this moment. Alas, for I cannot send my own thought upon the wind to you! Should the east wind blow against the walls of the White City, despair will be on its wings, and it will have already destroyed us here. While you are yet sheltered from it, hope against fading hope that it will not overwhelm us, sister! For unless some aid comes swiftly, I fear that the west banks of Anduin will not hold. We are being spread ever thinner... but I do not need to write any more of this. Despair will not wait for an invitation, but rather it grasps wherever a foothold, however shallow, is permitted it. It must be fought just as staunchly as any tangible enemy.
Poor Father! I hope this letter reaches you while he is yet alive. If he wakes at all, Tirithel, give him my love! I can only imagine what pain you must be going through to see him daily weaken. I fear the end is near, for him. Alas, for my tears cannot save him.
I saw a cluster of flowers growing from beneath the wall this morning, Tirithel. They were of the little white kind that you like, and they made me think of you. A flicker of something akin to hope flashed in my heart, and I thought that even the Nameless One cannot conquer forever. In memory, at least, of hope, I will press a few of the petals into this letter.
With my love,

Your brother,

Elendur

[Telcontar_Dunedain]

That was great Rosie. How many more are left?

[Rosie Gamgee]

Thanks. Still trying to wheedle that out of me, ay? Somewhere's around nine or ten, I think- if you must know.

[Rosie Gamgee]

This letter I found among some parchments that came from Minas Tirith. It is written by Tirithel, actually. I found it interesting to find a letter from the other end of the correspondence. Enjoy.

5 July, 3018

Dear Elendur,

Greetings, brother. I was sorry to read of the departure of Boromir and his brother from Osgiliath. I had heard that the Captains of Gondor were within the circles of the City, and also of the riddle they bring, but I did not think what trouble it would cause you. My heart goes out to you when I read of the men who died while under your watch. I am sure their deaths must be hard to bear. But be of good cheer, brother! You were put in command because you are worthy of it. Remember what Father used to say: Stay the course. You will endure.
Only yesterday it was decided which of the sons of the Steward should go in search of the land of Imladris, brother. You will probably receive word of it before this letter comes to you, and I am sure you will be just as surprised as I to learn that Boromir set out yesterday. Faramir will return to you, although he should have gone, and not his elder brother. I heard a common speech this morning that Boromir put himself forth to go, and would not be swayed. This is a strange thing- that the elder son of Denethor should wish to journey many days alone when his chief delight is to be in arms among his companies. And indeed, is not your Captain-General more needed now than Faramir? Nevertheless, Elendur, take comfort! The Steward is wise, and surely he would not let his firstborn son depart in an hour of dire need.
Alas, my brother, for you are twice bereft in only one day! For yesternight our father died, Elendur. A little ere he died he woke. His voice was calm, but weak, and he said to say that he is proud of you, Elendur, and that although you are his second-born child, you are his best-loved and his joy. He spoke a few more words to me, and then his eyes closed slowly and his spirit passed away. I will not write do not weep, brother, for I know that tears will comfort you. But do not dwell on your sorrow overmuch. He loved you to the end, and he loves you still. His spirit is happier now beyond the circles of this world, freed of a weak tent and the shame of frailty. Would that I could be there for you now. If the spirits of the living may follow with those they love, mine is with you!
However my heart, as you now know, follows another. For that man I love (who must remain nameless) has also gone away to peril, perhaps not to return. I fear that his family has found out our love, and has sent him away to blunt or break his affection for me. He did not come to bid me farewell, and this sustains my suspicions. I will not deny to you that this has wounded me, Elendur. Father’s death makes my spirit heavy- this makes it even heavier. Evil times these days are, brother, and rightly you speak when you say that hope dwindles. But I will not loose faith- neither in you, brother, nor in the one I love. Even despair may be cheated if the heart remains strong. And love is a bulwark not easily thrown down, whether it binds lovers or kindred.
Your questioning of me in this matter made me laugh, despite my distress, Elendur. For sooth, I have never known you to be so inquisitive. And certainly I have not been riddling. I only omit facts that point to the identity of the one I love. He wishes not that our love should be known, for fear of the disapproval of his father- and indeed, it seems what he dreaded has come to pass. Yet the likelihood remains that our love is yet unknown to his family, and his journey is but a turn of unhappy chance. So forgive me, brother, my secrecy in this matter, but it is merited. Someday, when perhaps I can explain, you will understand.
I will answer one of your questions: How long have you kept this secret from me? I have loved him many long years, Elendur, and never have I told you of it before, as you know. However, only in the spring of this year was my affection returned. It was for this reason, and because I did not wish you to worry over Mother’s ring (for I know that, because you are younger and never knew her as well as I, you treasure everything of hers), I have told you of this matter. Brother, please, do not spread abroad this news, even to your trusted friends. Someone may know he has frequented our house when in the City, and this may lead to his dishonour.
Thank you for the flower-petals, Elendur. Although it is but the middle of summer, all of my little white flowers have died. I do not know why. The house and the windowsills seem bleak without them. The whole house is empty and cold now. It has been ever since you left, Elendur, but it is even more so now, without Father. I am afraid that I shall no longer be able to stay here, brother. As you know, we have no close relations in the City, but for Father’s elder sister Ioreth. I suppose I will ask if I may dwell with her, although I do not wish to be a burden. At least I will be able to help her with the healing stores, instead of wandering listlessly about our empty house. She handles much of the supplies sent out to the Rammas Echor and beyond: the tinctures, medicines, and bandages.
Brother, even if you are not transferred to the out-wall, seeing as it is Faramir who returns to you and not Boromir, I will yet stand by the walls of the City and watch for you. I trust you will yet return to Minas Tirith, although my heart forebodes that it will not be in the manner that you expect. Although hope may be withheld from you, Elendur, do not loose faith. The right will prevail, though we may not live to see it. Trust in that!
Your loving sister,

Tirithel



Note: I have not found anymore letters written directly after this. However, I have found several written later, which begins to put them into recognizable time-frames. I’ll post them here soon.

[Telcontar_Dunedain]

Yay. That was great Rosie.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Thanks, TD.

Here's another of Elendur’s letters; as I have said, written later. There were probably letters on both sides between this letter and the previous one, but they have not been recovered.


27 September, 3018

Dear Tirithel,

Greetings. My time to write is short, so this letter will be brief. Besides that, supplies are low, and parchment and ink is precious. More use are they in relaying orders than in writing home. Also, post-carriers are scarce in recent days, the ways homeward being treacherous even under guard.
I am well, and in good health, in body at least. My spirit, though, is yet less than well. Autumn seems to be coming swifter this year than we are accustomed, and the wind blows cold of late.
The troops in Ithilien have been pulled out, sister. It was grievous to see how many did not return. Many of those who did come back will be given leave. I envy them that.
Faramir spoke to me this morning of a new force to be used in the lands between the River and the Ephel Dúath. Small, secret companies will be sent across Anduin- not to engage in open conflict, but only to harry the Enemy and His gathering allies. It is pitiful that we are reduced to fighting in the shadows, Tirithel, and yet so many men have been spent in the old companies that we can no longer afford to send them out openly. It has not been decided yet, but I believe I will be put in command of one of these small companies, sister. If so, I will not be able to write home from beyond the River. This saddens me, for also I will not receive any letters from you, Tirithel. Yet, if kindred remain together in spirit, my heart shall not grieve overmuch.
Still no word has come of Boromir: whether he has found the land which he seeks, or whether he is even yet alive. I know evil fortune is risked by saying such words, but they have been on my heart for some time. Many men here begin to wonder if the Captain-General should have been sent on the quest to seek Imladris. Yet we still hold out hope for his return.
How is Aunt Ioreth? I imagine that even in the midst of trouble and war she still prattles, as has always been her wont. I was thinking but yesterday of that day when I tumbled from the roof and broke my arm, sister. Her maundering while they reset it took my mind off of the pain nearly as effectively as the herbs! But I do remember she was always good for puzzling riddles and bits of lore.
Do you know aught of the captain who wears your ring, Tirithel? Have you received any word of him at all since he was sent away? Though I know not who he is, I remember him often in my thoughts, for your sake, sister. Since you wrote me of your captain, Tirithel, my eye strays ever to the hands of any man I meet, looking for a glimpse of Mother’s ring. I have yet to see it, though, among the walking or the wounded. Yet, do not despair! for they say no tidings are happy tidings.
I may not have time to write you again, Tirithel, before crossing the River, but you will ever be in my thoughts. I hope and pray that I may live to write you once more, at the least. All my love to you, Tirithel, until then!
Your brother,

Elendur

[Telcontar_Dunedain]

Anytime Rosie!
That was another great letter. How many left now?

[Rosie Gamgee]

I think I'm going to top Firiel in numbers at least. I've not finished them, but I think the count is up to 14 so far. So seven more, plus three or four I haven't wri- ahem- translated, yet.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Here's another of Tirithel’s letters, the last one I was able to locate, although I have practically destroyed our chest with searching. (But the searching was not all in vain- I have discovered letters from rather unlikely sources which pertain to Elendur and his sister.) There seem to have been some letters sent in reply to Elendur’s last message, and they are alluded to here, but I could not locate them.

11 February, 3019

Dear Elendur,

Greetings again, brother. I do not know if you will receive this letter. I found out only a few days ago that you were sent to Ithilien months ago, as you expected you would be, and have not received a number of my letters. Nevertheless, I will keep writing, in the hope that you will be permitted to read my messages upon your return. Life here in the City is getting bleaker, more empty, and there is no one to talk to. Aunt Ioreth, bless her heart, does not agree with listening very often, except perhaps when she is asleep- although, doubtless, even then she probably tires even the ghosts that appear to us in our visions at night with her endless prattling. Parchment, at least, will lend itself without a word to one’s thoughts.
Last week, when I went to market, brother, I was surprised to notice suddenly how many houses are empty and forlorn. I am afraid it has been happening verily under my gaze for months, and I have not seen it until now: many families now are leaving the White City to dwell with their kinsmen in Lossarnach and Lebennin. The City is lonely without them, and she seems to sigh under the weight of winter. For now so many of her children have left for the battlefields, and those that have not are quickly passing away into the lands by the Sea and have forgotten her. I suppose they think it is safer there by the Sea than here, where the east wind’s straining ever increases. Perhaps they are right, Elendur. I mentioned before that our uncle on Mother’s side, Galadmir of Lebennin, wrote to me shortly after Father’s death, did I not? He is old, and dwells on the banks of the River Sirith past Tumladen, a little ere it is joined by River Celos. He invited me to come thence and dwell within his house. I have been pondering his invitation more seriously of late. I wrote to him two weeks ago, saying that I will come to Lebennin and dwell with him. I hope you approve, brother, but, alas! you are not within reach to ask.
I am missing you so, Elendur! I fear I am languishing here, starved for sight or word of the ones I love. I think of you almost every waking moment, and troubling dreams have been coming to me of late concerning you. One such dream troubles me even in waking hours. In it, I stand alone upon a wooded hill. The sound of a river flowing near is in my ears, a crash of falls, but I know not whence it comes. About me are the carcasses of many foul creatures, great and horrible. Then I see a warrior who must have been valiant whilst he lived, for he lies alone there among his fallen foes. He sleeps in death, slain with the darts of his enemies, and his face is hidden from me. Always then, although the dream may differ or vary in small ways ere this point, I am drawn to this warrior whom I cannot see. Then I hear your voice calling me, Elendur. Ever when I hear your voice, I wish to turn and run to you, and yet I cannot escape the draw of the sleeping warrior. And then the dream fades, and I wake. I do not know what this portends, or if indeed it portends anything. Yet it perplexes me.
There has been no word of that man I love best since he left me last summer. I cling desperately to the hope of his return. And yet my hopes have turned like the sand upon the seashore, which slips quicker from the fingers when the grasp tightens. My heart begins to despair in spite of the hope my spirit clings to. I understand a little better your own disheartenment, brother. For my faith seems to be stolen away from me, though I do not relinquish it. I think now not that love’s bulwark is lessened in strength, but perhaps its power is not in maintaining hope, but in making despair endurable. As you once wrote to me, brother, hope has not returned to my spirit, but at least despair is deferred from its place for the present. And yet, Elendur, if the one I love does not return to me, I fear that what is left of me will wither away without that which belongs to him.
I must end this letter now, Elendur, for the only post-carrier to ride to Osgiliath this fortnight will depart within the hour. Aunt Ioreth sends her love to you. I send my love, and all the hope left to me. Come home soon, dear brother!
Love,

Tirithel

[Telcontar_Dunedain]

Another great installment Rosie. How many left now?

[Rosie Gamgee]

Thanks. 9 are left. I finished them!!! All's left to do is post.

[Rosie Gamgee]

This letter is from Elendur to his sister. It was sent nine days after it was written- 9 March- with the wains from Minas Tirith bound for ‘the vales of Lossarnach and Tumladen, and the mountain-villages, and then on to Lebennin.’ (-Beregond, to Peregrin Took, Chapter I, RotK)


30 February, 3019

Dearest Tirithel,

I am sorry, dear sister, for I have returned to Minas Tirith only to find you gone away! I came into the City only this morning, and indeed, as you predicted, my return was not as I expected. I had thought that if I did return home at all, it would be on leave, or else wounded so that I could not serve or fight. Alas, sister, for even these would have been preferable to the circumstances we now find ourselves in!
But five days ago my company in Ithilien was relieved, and we came to Osgiliath that evening. There I read your letters, Tirithel. I did not respond to them, for there was no time, and also we were to come to Minas Tirith soon. I wished to surprise you, as I did not know of your departing. (Aunt Ioreth said that you wrote to me ere you left for Lebennin, but perhaps that letter did not reach Osgiliath.) My company spent the night within the old city. It has changed somehow, sister, since I was there last. Or maybe it has remained unchanged, and it is I who am different. I do not know.
The next day I was to report to the Rammas Echor, which I did. In the hours after midday, a strange thing befell, sister, that I did not understand until yesternight. Even now I do not fully comprehend its meaning. Upon the breezes blowing from away north was heard the trumpeting of a faint horn. Or perhaps it was not heard with the ears, but rather the heart. An ill omen I felt it was, and so it came to be. Not only was it heard on the Rammas, Tirithel, but Captain Faramir and his father the Steward heard it also here in the White City. Two days ago Faramir rode out from the City, and we discussed this thing together, but could conclude nothing except that it must be a boding of evil. You see, sister, Faramir and the Steward know the blowing of that horn well. Both had no uncertainty that it was the sounding of Boromir’s horn, that great ox-horn that has belonged to the eldest son of the Stewards’ house for many generations. What they were not certain of was whether the sounding had been but in the thought, or if the horn had indeed been blown upon that afternoon. We still do not know the answers to these questions, and others.
Yesternight Captain Faramir and I took the night watches on the River, near Osgiliath. All the world was stiller than still, I remember, and even the mighty Anduin whispered lowly as it passed. I sat watch until the hour was nigh midnight. Then Faramir came and took the next watch. I lay back and closed my eyes, and fell into a shallow sleep. Something woke me a space later. When I sat up I found that it was the sound of splashing water that had roused me. Thinking that some foul thing was trying to climb up the bank, I drew my bow out and fitted an arrow to the string. At first I was alarmed, for I could not see Faramir, and then I realized it was he who had gone into the water. He was turned from me, and was looking down the river, and it seemed to me that his gaze followed something flowing away, though it was too far now for me to see what it was. Only a faint light could I see disappearing on the tide. Boromir! I suddenly heard Faramir’s voice saying. Whither goest thou, O Boromir? he cried, and his head was bowed. When he came back to where I stood, my bow and arrow still ready in my hand (for his words had so struck me that I could not release them), he was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke to me of what he had seen. A boat, Tirithel, of strange craft, was floating on the tide nearly filled with glowing water. It was guided by no visible oarsman. Within, said Faramir, a soldier lay asleep, pierced with many wounds. A broken sword lay across his knees, and the arms of his enemies were at his feet. Alas! sister, for it was Boromir that lay in the silence of death within that strange boat! So said Faramir, and I do not doubt his words. Like a dream it all seemed to me, and also to Faramir, but we waited in vain for waking. For it was not a dream, Tirithel, and our great Boromir is dead! And now his body has passed down Anduin, to find the Sea. Alas, sister, for Boromir! My heart is heavy, for he is gone now for ever!
We rode to Minas Tirith almost at once, to bring these evil tidings to Denethor. I feel for the Steward, sister, and yet I know I cannot begin to understand what pain he endures. His son and heir is dead! Alas for Minas Tirith, and for Gondor, for these days are evil!
I have come home to other tidings, which are also unhappy: you are not here! It is a bitter thought that you should have taken your leave only two days before I arrived, Tirithel. When you do come to the house of our uncle, dear sister, I hope you will take some rest. For Aunt Ioreth tells me- with many more words than necessary- that you have been listless of late, and the colour has left your cheeks. This grieves me, sister- the thought of you ill. Would that you had not taken this journey whilst ailing!
I will not remain in the City long: I leave tomorrow with Faramir. He has an errand in Ithilien. I shall accompany him, but only to the Causeway Forts, where I shall remain. My heart is sore for the Captain’s sake, Tirithel. He is quiet now, and sad. A shadow lies on his face that was not there before. I will bide the night with Aunt Ioreth, in which time I am sure I will hear all that there is to tell of your doings since you came to stay with her (and much more).
Get well, sister! Give my thanks to Galadmir for his hospitality, and bid him to take care of you for me!
Your brother,

Elendur

P.S. I do not know when this letter may reach you. Aunt Ioreth says she will try and find someone traveling to Lebennin, for post-riders journeying south are scarce.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Here are the next two letters. I'll post them at the same time because niether are written by Elendur or Tirithel, and because they're relatively short.

The first is a letter that, though written by neither, concerns Elendur and Tirithel. It was written by Galadmir (‘of Sirith,’ he writes) and sent to Minas Tirith. He writes to Ioreth regarding Tirithel.


2 March, 3019

My dear madam,

I write to you on behalf of your brother’s daughter Tirithel. After a long delay since my invitation, and a hard pilgrimage, she came to my house yesterday afternoon. However, I must tell you that I am rather alarmed, for she is quite ill, and probably should not have made the journey. Her horse was carrying her limp form when she came to my door, and her servants said she had fainted from the sun on the open road. She was revived soon after being brought into the house, yet remained pale and languid and ate little at dinner. She slept then, but her rest was fitful. I had thought that a night of sleep would set her to rights, but she remains the same. This morning she barely breakfasted, and now she lies listlessly in the flower garden. Did she take her leave of Minas Tirith in this state? Surely the journey could not have wearied her so much. And the sun is not so hot yet (it being only early spring) that she should have been fatigued so.
Is her brother Elendur there with you in the White City? Tirithel has mentioned him, and sends a sealed note, which I have enclosed, in the hope that he is with you.
So far south of the City, hardly any post-carriers can be found to ride to Minas Tirith. I am afraid the days are growing evil, and some doom is near at hand for Gondor. I will send my own man to deliver this message, for I fear for the daughter of my dear sister. I have heard that you are skilled in healing, madam. Is there anything that can be done for my niece?

Galadmir of Sirith



Note: The ‘sealed note’ mentioned above was not recovered with this letter.

[Rosie Gamgee]

This is Ioreth’s reply to the previous letter. Letter 9 was sent with it to Galadmir.


5 March, 3019

Galadmir of Sirith,

Greetings. Your man arrived only this afternoon with your letter. They came here rather late, I reckon. The Rammas is watched closely now, and he almost did not get through to the City. For verily, Minas Tirith is quickly transforming into Gondor’s tower of guard. I am afraid that even if my niece had stayed here longer she would still have been made to leave. By order of the Steward, almost all of the women in Minas Tirith are to be sent away to Lossarnach and Tumladen. Along with them go the aged and infirm, and the young children. They have but a few days to make ready for the journey. Only those of us who have some skill in healing are permitted to dwell within the City in these evil days. I do not suppose your man will be allowed to leave Minas Tirith unless with the wains for the women, and that will not, as I said, be for at least four days hence.
I was perplexed when I read your letter. Tirithel was indeed listless when she left Minas Tirith, but I supposed it was brought on by the death of her father, my brother. This has made both of us heavy of heart. For her father was the youngest child of our family, and quite the darling of my sisters and me. I had noticed of late that Tirithel’s face had become pale, and she seemed to lose interest in almost everything, save a collection of letters from her brother, my nephew Elendur. He is not in the City with me- he left on the first of the month for the Causeway Forts. He is a fine soldier, taking after his father when he was young- a doughty lad, but thoughtful. I will try to see that the note Tirithel sent gets to him, but there are no more post-carriers going out from the City- at least not to bear anything save orders and battle-plans, I suppose. I am sending along with this letter a message Elendur wrote to his sister the day before he quitted Minas Tirith. I am glad at least that this good has come of you sending your man to me- that now I have at last found someone traveling to Lebennin willing to bear a letter.
As for my niece, I cannot be sure what her illness is unless I see her for myself, of course. It was so much easier when they were wee children, and lived near to me here in the City, and I could check up on them myself without hassle. Now my brother’s children are scattered to the four winds- or two at least, it would seem: one fighting a war to the east, the other traveling ailing to the west. And I am but an old woman who can hardly read a letter without the full light of day. Now I write by candlelight as the darkness of evening comes on.
From your letter I gather that Tirithel’s ailment is in the spirit rather than the body. I have seen it before in young girls torn from ones they love. I reckon she is missing her brother- but I know there is another that her thought follows. She has not told me of him, yet- although I may be old- I know the look of a woman in love. I recommend such diversion as you can contrive: she likes old books and tales, and knows a great lot of them herself- but those she knows are mostly of old battles and conquests. (‘Tis rather odd for a girl, I know, but, as you are aware, her mother died when she was quite young, and she and Elendur were raised by only my brother, who was a soldier in his day. As playmates they spent much time with the sons of the Steward- and both of them have also become great warriors. But we in the City have received ill news of Boromir. The Steward and Faramir believe he is dead, for Faramir saw his brother’s body pass down the River to the Sea. These are evil tidings, and all Minas Tirith mourns for her lost son.) As a girl Tirithel took pleasure also in music- but of late much of that kind of mirth has vanished from the City. I think a little minstrelsy might bring her spirits up a bit. You said she has not been eating much- this is probably the reason she fainted on the way to Lebennin. Try to tempt her appetite- she likes apples (I know it is not the season for them, but perhaps you have some dried fruit), and also sweet, light confections. Make sure she takes plenty of rest- she must regain her strength. As for her restlessness: try a few spoonfuls of honey and vinegar just before she retires, if she will take it. I am glad to read that you have a flower garden- Tirithel delights in flowers, and there are precious few here in this city of stone. One flower that might help her a bit is calendula. I also advise a cup of chamomile tea now and then.
Give my dear niece my love, sir. Tell her that the City is lacking her presence, but I trust that she is settling in well with you. I thank you, sir, for writing to me on her behalf.

Ioreth of Minas Tirith

[Telcontar_Dunedain]

They were great. Thanks Rosie!

[Rosie Gamgee]

My pleasure. *Whew* I was almost afraid I lost my readers- I am (or was), like, the only one posting in here!

[Telcontar_Dunedain]

Not me. I'm hooked on these letters!

[Earniel]

Originally Posted by Rosie Gamgee

My pleasure. *Whew* I was almost afraid I lost my readers- I am (or was), like, the only one posting in here!

No, no, we're all waiting with baited breath for the next of your letters.

When my exams are done I may attempt to translate another letter, I promised Valandil one.

[Rosie Gamgee]

Originally Posted by Eärniel

No, no, we're all waiting with baited breath for the next of your letters.

Well, for goodness sakes- say something! I love feed-back, just to know people are reading these things! Gets a little lonely out here posting and posting and not knowing if everyone just rolls their eyes when the Index shows Rosie posted in Letters- again. But, thanks for the note!

When my exams are done I may attempt to tranlate another letter, I promised Valandil one.

Oh, do!