#interactive event

To Lady Haleth, daughter of Haldad, independent noblewoman agent abiding in the vicinity,

I beg you to forgive me for addressing this appallingly forward impertinent missive to one undoubtedly as busy as you, but I merely seek to reassure you on the delicate subject of the caravans of strangers that might well cross your territory anon.

Fear not, Milady, ‘tis due to the tax season and—as such—of no concern to you. I shan’t bore you with the tiresome details of the administrative proceedings and laws underlying this process as you’ve previously informed me, in no unclear terms and on more than one occasion, that my “lordly dog and pony show” left you entirely pococurante.

Thus, I only wish to duly advise you, as any good friend neighbour would, of the upcoming upheaval so you may take the precautions you deem necessary for your own safety and that of your people.

As you’re not one of my subjects, though, I do not, in whatever shape or form, lay any claim on the fruits of your labour or any other part of your precious life. This, as you may have deduced correctly, is another sincere vow I seek to reiterate solemnly.

Verily, no secret design nor nefarious ploy moves me to regrettably rusty penmanship! I prythee, do not doubt my best intentions on the grounds of a probably less-than-sublime execution—be more merciful and forgiving than my kin would have been.

In hopes that your health is excellent and your mood amenable to forgive so impudent a communication, I dare extend my most affectionate respectful greetings to you.

Morifinwë Carnistir, Lord of Thargelion (even though a group of unruly louts, pelting me with offal and ugly produce, has been known to confer the ungracious title of “cranky red-faced ghoul” upon me).

(to rewrite after the meeting)

To Carnistir Morifinwë, son of the flammable Elf and his crafty wife, brother to many a fearsome warrior, Lord of Thargelion, and so on and so forth,

Greetings! You stuffy, old fool! (I call you “Poppy” in private for you’re enchantingly dark, beautifully red, and all around utterly mind-addling, but that is—as you’d say—of “no consequence” in these matters. Nevertheless, if you’re dismayed by the juvenile misbehaviour of the previously referenced ne’er-do-wells, I shall take it upon myself to chide them appropriately—you might not be our Lord, but I dare consider you a respected neighbour, nevertheless.)

It seems that a dutiful servant has sent off your draft before you could amend it—it gladdens my heart to learn that even the mighty Elven Lord in his draughty fortress doesn’t write a perfect letter on the first try. I shall cherish this missive (as well as its proof of endearing fallibility and uncertainty) until my dying day!

Furthermore, I’m delighted to earnestly assure you that I—unlike you—am indeed not in the habit of being overly discountenanced by passing strangers, wishing me no harm, and paying me no heed. Thus, there’s certainly no need to upset your delicate stomach on my behalf.

Moreover, I want to generously remind you that—whatever you think to claim or not from me—you know where to find me; my door is always open, and I’d be honoured to welcome you in my humble abode.

My sweet bird,

Please accept my apologies for the soot and the ashes staining my haphazard confession—I must burn this letter as soon as I’m done writing, as I have no way of getting it to you safely and I can’t let it fall into the hands of any who’d wish you harm.

Isn’t it funny that there should be no trustworthy messenger for an irreproachable herald such as you and no dutiful foot soldier willing to accomplish in my name the humble service I fulfil so unerringly every day? Don’t we deserve better?

Despite all that has happened lately, I still remember how fond you ever were of new, exciting sights and novel experiences, so I yearn to tell you about the paradise of exile.

No doubt, your Master speaks of flight and cowardice—exaggerating the squalor and misery in which he surmises we must be duly writhing—and you’ll flinch violently in a valiant effort to dissimulate the instinctive reaction of your generous essence.

Worry not, my dove, for Endórë is beautiful. Wild, churning, alive, it is blooming with potential and progress!

I know that you’ve always been frightened of anything boundless—be that the land or the extent of my affection for you—but you must believe me when I swear that I’m happy here.

There are warm springs like pools of precious tears, shed by an unseen power deep within the belly of this foreign land, and I often visit them and think of you.

Also, I have a favourite spot—high upon the jagged cliffs, overlooking the seemingly endlessly vast terrain—in which I like to sit, imagining you tumbling through the crisp, cool air in unbridled joy.

After an eternity of stale mediocrity within the golden cage of the Blessed Realm, I revel in the sharpness of this unconquered world which bends and bows to my will like nought I’ve ever known before except your pliable, sensuous flesh.

Of course, you’d probably scoff at the asseverations of a deserter and traitor, but, Eönwë, my love, I truly am convinced that you could love this savage realm of prospects and perils—it was made for you, and I sorely regret that you can’t be here with me.

It would be despicably wrong of me to now claim that I miss you, wouldn’t it?

Irrevocable and grievous choices have been made, and we both need to accept the consequences. Were those not your parting words?

You shan’t ever receive this missive, written in the blood of one who’s paid his morally dubious or even reprehensible freedom by sacrificing his true love, and so I don’t hesitate to confess that I have hope still.

Brighter than the flame within Arda, more enduring and endless than the Void, my faith expands to caress your soft face once more.

Maybe, one day, we shall be reunited again. Until then, I’ll see you in every starlit night sky and feel you in every stormy breeze.

I’ve lied, my sweet, righteous beloved, for my felicity shall never be anywhere near complete or satisfying in your absence.

Thus, I’ll work harder in the ruthless, selfish pursuit of my most intimate wish: getting you here, by any means necessary.

To my son (if he still acknowledges our kinship, deliver it into his own hands, otherwise, burn this letter)

Dear Tyelpë,

Your uncle sends his fond regards. We’re about to leave this accursed city like rabid dogs, chased away by a flurry of stones and angry words—I thought this admission might cheer you for it strongly resembles the cruel fate you’ve prophesied for us upon your own disgruntled departure.

I know not whether this missive shall ever reach you, and a part of me wishes it never will for I am as ashamed of my reluctance to admit fault as of my inexcusable misdeeds—maybe you were always right, and we’re just too far gone for redemption.

My heart misgives me, though, and I want to have admitted (even in so cowardly a fashion as to write a letter addressed to a ghost) at least once that I know that we were wrong to betray Findaráto, who’d ever been a precious friend and stolid ally to us.

In the end, his loyalty will kill him twice over, and even the best of us shall not outrun the Doom of our people. I truly am sorry about that, as I know how fond you are of the silly creature.

No doubt, we shall soon drown in blood, and you may freely join countless others in hoping that it will be our own—I do not resent you anymore for having tried to leave a crooked path leading only to death and devastation before it was too late.

Thus, I beg you to do just that. Live, son of mine, survive and prove me wrong in my defeatist belief that all is irrevocably lost!

Surpass me by bearing the loss of a beloved father—however flawed and insane as he might have been—with equanimity and unwavering courage rather than maddening grief and poisonous hatred. Instead, find your mother’s people or throw yourself at the mercy of a distant relative, yet untouched and unmarred by the voracious curse grinding those closest to you to meal.

May I be the only one of my generation to see my child flee from me in desperate pursuit of a brighter future! May you find shelter and support in the bosom of another colony.

Your uncle’s ready to leave—I shan’t take the writing set your mother made for me, so I’ll entrust it, together with this letter—and what little remains of my heart—to the safekeeping of one of the few friends that remain to us.

Don’t weep for me, Tyelpë! We’ve both made our choices and the bones are cast; may your destiny be more clement than mine. Stay as vigilant and incorruptible as you’ve been in leaving us! The worst is yet to come, I fear!

In time, you might even come to remember that, once upon a time, you’ve loved me well and admired me truly.

Enclosed in this letter, you’ll find the pendant you’ve crafted for me. I no longer deserve to bear the mark of your filial affection where I’m headed.

I’m stripped to the bleakest, barest form of my former self, and I’m glad you’re no longer here to witness my humbling fall from grace.

Farewell, beloved son of mine, until we meet again,

Your desolate father

To Ñolofinwë, son of Indis, beacon of hope

My beloved, wronged son,

I hope that the right to address you thus is not yet denied to me.

Mayhap, you shall frown at receiving this missive, unlooked-for, from one who’s decided—against the council of his wife and despite the need of his cherished progeny—to follow your wilful, quarrelsome brother into exile.

Impertinent and selfish as such a plea might be, I dare ask you not for your forgiveness but for your understanding, and I beg you to hear me out rather than toss this letter into the nearest fireplace.

You wouldn’t, though, would you?

Never have you been as changeful and brash as Curufinwë, and this quiet strength of character of yours, amongst other more pressing and just as unfair elements, has allowed me to act as I have.

How cruel and heartless a father must I appear to be, seemingly indulging and condoning the shocking misdeeds of my firstborn son against you, my darling boy—believe me when I say that it is not so.

Curufinwë Fëanáro, you must understand, is suffering, and I blame myself for his unhappiness.

Of course, you’ve never known Míriel; she was beautiful, radiant, and inspired, and I loved her dearly.

Nevertheless, I shall not hide from you that—since the day of his birth—Curufinwë, and all the helpless, overpowering devotion I feel for him, has eclipsed even my deep regard for my spouse.

I admit freely that it is an ignoble, deplorable stroke of fate that this fatal weakness has led to both your birth and your abandonment for—holding your brother in my trembling arms—I’ve understood that I’d yearn for that singular feeling of terror and amazement forevermore.

Your mother is wroth, and I don’t doubt that my whole household is rightly displeased with me—this I must bear with equanimity as I deserve nothing less.

By wanting and loving my children too much, I keep leaving half-orphans in my wake, and I know not how to stop the avalanche of misery my unquenchable need has set in motion.

All I can say in my defence is that Curufinwë needs me and that, having lost his own dear mother and been relegated to the rank of a tolerated but little-loved intruder by yours, he would have lost all faith in me, had I refused to stand by him. I couldn’t bear that, you see?

There is great potential and creativity in him, too much maybe, but he lacks your enviable tendency for empathy and forgiveness.

Fear not, my son, even as I pen those lines, I’m aware of how callously cruel it is to call upon your best qualities even as they serve as pathetic justifications and excuses for my hurtful actions—your gentle heart and unwavering loyalty should never bring you suffering, especially not at the hand of the ones you love.

I hear Curufinwë stirring, and thus, I must leave this letter unfinished.

I hope that we shall soon be reunited so I can tell you, in person, how proud I am of the man you’ve become and how much I’ve loved you even before you were born.

Finally, let me reiterate that I do not beseech you to absolve me of the malefactions I’ve inflicted on you, but—if you can find it in your heart—pardon your brother for his temporary folly.

I’m sure he regrets having parted in anger even if he doesn’t admit it.

I love you. All of you! Never doubt that and convey my fond greetings to your siblings.

Your father

Link on Ao3

To Fëanáro Curufinwë, who’s once been my beloved spouse,

I know not how to start this letter and by what trumped-up title to address you, so I dispense with the formalities in favour of a more direct approach—you always liked that about me.

Undoubtedly, Námo—whom I’ve pestered relentlessly—has been good enough to fulfil his duties as a carrier raven with stern dignity. Do remember to thank him kindly for his gracious service, please!

Who would have thought that—of all the Valar—the Doomsman would be such a romantic spirit?

Now, let me not mince words out of girlish, utterly embarrassing coyness. I’ve recently been made aware that you were transferred—by the Valar’s grace—from your abysmal prison to the Halls of Mandos, and I’ve long debated whether to contact you.

You know me—I’m hardly the kind of woman to bite her nails and wring her hands for overlong, hence why you’re presently perusing this chaotic missive which naïvely seeks to reassure you that you’re not forgotten.

Our sons are with me (they still can’t agree on any matter, be it inconsequential or of monumental importance); it will certainly flatter your hefty sense of self-importance to learn that you—in all your terrible glory and ruthless genius—linger in our every conversation.

Truth be told, your memory inhabits even the sullen silences following their impassionate harangues.

It’s as if every thought or mention of you was forbidden, and the more we attempt to avoid you like a painful wound best left untouched, the more you hover at the edges of our minds and on the tip of our tongues.

When they deem me distracted, I observe them with jealous intensity—I cannot help myself—and I’m ever reminded of that impossible, indescribable love that has brought them forth…and which has almost broken me like a subpar statue.

You’ve done me wrong, ‘Náro, and I don’t believe even you could deny that unequivocal fact; you’ve filled me with happiness and then shattered me mercilessly as if I’d been nought more than one of your countless discarded crafting projects, and I resent you. That, I cannot refute.

Even after all this time, a part of me hates you still, because there’s been no peace for me. By now, I think you know that a love like ours cannot be set aside or left behind for good—I wanted to believe that it could be so when I was alone and mourning, but now that our children—glorious, grown, and grieving still—are back in my life and my arms, I clearly understand that what has been wrecked can, in due time, be rebuilt.

Do you recall what first drew us to one another? Creation! I'm twice the artisan I was then, and I know that—if I’m given all the shards of shame and self-recrimination—I can assemble them into something better, stronger, and deeper than we’d ever thought we could be.

We’re no longer the reckless youths who got married in a whirlwind of foolhardy enthusiasm, and I hope we’ve both moved past the bitter loss of our former selves.

What I mean is, ‘Náro, we could be more. I have collected the broken pieces and polished them with tears—all we are lacking to be whole once more is our heart.

Come home!

N.