Asëa aranion by firstamazon

Asëa aranion

I think I may be obsessed with Findekáno writing letters - but this came out in a whim and, within a blink, I had it. So here it is, unpolished but done. My entry for the SWG Challenge: Naturalist's Guide to Middle-earth.

Read Asëa aranion

Day 123 since the Proclamation of the Doom.

The ice blinds me. Even while I write these words, the cold painfully bite my fingers. I won’t be able to do it for much longer, lest I lose the sensibility on the tips. When I am not scouting ahead to make sure the road is safe, I fall behind the last line of the host to make sure there is no one left. And it’s on those occasions, when the wind blows the hardest, that I feel its vastitude and its emptiness. It’s not a surprise that there’s barely a living thing to be found here.

In this everlasting Winter, no plants spring from the cold, hard ground, and the few animals we see are quickly killed before we can even think of letting them get away. No one in their right mind would let a seal or other marine mammals slip away – skin, oil, meat. There’s too much to be used in this forsaken place.

But then, no one here is in their right minds – I least of all.

An unusual thing, however, I have encountered during this damned journey: I stumbled upon a curious plant the other day – the first and the last I’ll ever see here, I think. It was but a sprout, lingering from a blotch of rock that miraculously had no snow upon it. It was fragrant like lavender – that single offshoot could be smelled from afar! But it was not like any of the plants we have seen before.

Father asked the scholars to study it better. Maybe it makes good tea. But we wouldn’t know, for we have no meanings of fire here. Someone has named it asëa aranion, in honor of father – can’t remember who thought of it, but it could have been Turukáno. I thought it was a bit cheesy, but it would’ve been something to lift his moody humor. Besides, no one could think of a better one, not knowing its properties – but then, of course, they are not you. You would have thought of a fitting name.

The plant smells good even after days of being plucked off the frozen rock. It is being kept with the other few samples we’ve managed to collect when we are a little hopeful, and the blizzards have given up destroying our resolves. Either way, it doesn’t matter where it’s being kept: its scent spreads. It’s truly remarkable. Last night we’ve set up camp and raised a tent. When I came in, I was enveloped by its refreshing fragrance once more.

Do you know what was the first thing I thought of? You, Maitimo. I thought of the last time I heard you laughing. Really laughing. It was before your father’s Exile, I would say. It seems like another life now. And here I am, being wistful and stupid, writing letters that won’t ever reach you only to keep my sanity from crumbling – when all I wanted to do was to slap that idiotic smile off your face! I hope you know that. I will punch you in the face until you bleed, Maitimo.

I wished you could have seen and analyzed the properties of this plant that had made me sorely think of you. I don’t know if there’s any other sample of it in Endorë, but maybe its finding is a sign. Maybe it means we are at last at the end of our wretched march. Maybe it would have made you think of me, in return.

Your cousin,
Findekáno.

PS: As you may have noticed, I couldn’t begin or end this letter the conventional way. I can’t, right now, call you “Dearest of all,” or finish it saying “Forever yours” – not even to myself and the non-existent possibility that you will ever read this.

PS2: Even if both things are still true. I hope you know and understand.