Notes on Small Matters by Narya

Chapter 1

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Tirion

Fo.A. 225

Narquelië, fourth day

 

Family: Well enough. Occasional squabbles and squalls.

Weather: Holding mild and clear.

Politics: Little to note at present, for which I am grateful.

Other: Mablung has returned, and is living with Edrahil. Fingon paused, and rested his quill against his top lip. I am glad for them both.
 

 

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“Do you write every day?” Arko asked, running his fingers over the scrolls tucked neatly into cubby holes above his brother's desk.

Fingon shook his head. “No. Once or twice each month, perhaps, unless there is something particular to tell.”
 

 

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Alqualondë

Fi.A. 783

Narvinyë, eleventh day

 

Family: Many leagues away, for the most part. I am with Finrod and Amárië, visiting Meleth for the winter months.

Weather: Gently cold. I am reminded of Himring in early autumn, when the light grew thin and frost bloomed over the land.

Politics: A letter came from our uncle. Some of the reborn speak again of returning to Middle-earth. I am sorry for them – how could I not be? – but I cannot see how it is possible. For us, the Straight Road runs only one way.

Other: I have made a friend here – a gull who comes to my window each morning for crumbs. I will miss her when we leave.
 

 

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He took lovers on occasion, as time went on. The Valar went among the Elves but rarely, and the old decrees did not seem to matter as they had.

Once, in a tavern on Tol Eressëa, he was propositioned by a beautiful red-haired youth who was deep in his cups. If he closed his eyes, Fingon thought, and let his mind drift backwards, he could almost pretend...

No.

Gently he disentangled himself from the lad and sent him back to his friends.
 

 

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Tirion

Si.A. 1243

Cermië, twentieth day

 

Family: Findis wishes to rebuild the old summer house. She says it is past time – but our grandmother will not hear of it.

Weather: Unbearably hot.

Politics: Last night I dined with Ingwion. He has not seen his father these three Ages. Fingon exhaled slowly. One wonders what to think.

Other: I have an urge to journey north, as we used to. Perhaps it is the heat. I will see if Angrod wishes to go; a change of air may do him good.
 

 

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“Why do you still do this?” Turgon turned on the spot, gesturing at the aisles of scrolls, leatherbound journals, and hand-stitched chapbooks. “We forget nothing – and surely no harm can come to us here. Not now. Why this need to record every detail of our lives?”

Fingon tucked his most recent scroll onto its shelf, and dropped cat-like from the ladder. “Not every detail. A selection only.” He smiled. “A flavour, if you will.”

“What good does it do?”

A shrug.

“Fingon. He is not coming back.” Turgon's voice was flat and cold as a stone.

“So you have told me before.”

“And have I been wrong?”

Fingon met his brother's gaze – gently. “We shall see.”
 

 

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The Strand of Ilmarin

Sev.A. 823

Ringarë, second day

Family: Úrendil (Arko's great-grandchild) today gave birth to a baby girl - so Estelindë has a cousin. I wonder what mischief they will cause as they grow.

Weather: Cold – and somehow bare. I do not mean the trees. Fingon paused, realising he was no longer strictly recording the weather. Can the Undying Lands grow old? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is I who am changed.

Politics: I hardly know these days. At any rate, things seem at peace.

Overhead, a gull's cry echoed. The wind stirred Fingon's braids, and weak sunlight gleamed on the golden threads.

Other: Olórin and the others are gone again. There are rumours that Melian, too, is abroad once more. Of course I do not know what this means. Fingon lifted his face to the breeze. It came from the east, over the sea. But I continue to wait, and hope.