letters from the front by Fernstrike

letters from the front

Water was precious—letters to home even more so. Isildur wet the chunk of ink scraped from the block and dipped the quill that Halel had given him before the army had left Imladris.

The better to keep your books in order, she had said with a sad smile, pretending this was just another journey, another voyage, another task to be done, rather than a mission to victory or the end of the world.

It seemed poor recompense for her devotion and fortitude to write what he really wanted to write—a tired report of how tired he was; how they had met their enemy in the field and how they had fought back with the savagery of wolves cornered in their own den; how the rations were beginning to bite and illness was spreading from the dirty water; how in the night’s dark hours he heard whispers on the wind in a voice that he recognised, that he had heard those hated years ago, wheedling its way into the council chambers of Armenelos. Instead, he summoned what rude artistry he could muster and set the pen to a flowing script on the parchment.

A poem for you, beloved.