Eighty years should not be long in the life of an elf. Indeed, it should compare to the batting of an eye, or perhaps the turning of a page. However, these past eighty years I could compare to the turning of a hundred pages or the closing of an eye in sleep, only now opening again. Yes, much had changed these past eighty years; and it was the general opinion of the masses that not all of this transformation was for the better.
These changes had occurred not only in Mirkwood, but throughout the land. Forests everywhere had grown drear and foreboding; Mirkwood was now threatened more than ever by the orcs and spiders that roamed just past our borders. Lothlorien to the west had strengthened its border guard at least tenfold, and Mirkwood had followed suit shortly thereafter. My brother, Randir, was out on patrol at least a week every month, and my father had been sent out every six months for the past twenty years. Randir's absence I did not mind overmuch; we had not been the closest of siblings ever since the escape of the dwarven prisoners. Ada's absence, however, disquieted everyone, for we all missed his joyous spirit.
Ada had been sent out with the patrols three days ago, and it had wounded us all. The house was dismal and dark with no one to warm it, and staying inside had grown increasingly boring. I was just about ready to take Marin on a ride around the borders, no matter how dangerous it had become, just to see the forests and have something to occupy my mind. In fact, I was walking down the stairway when a messenger rode up to the flet and demanded to see my mother. I curtsied shortly before rushing back up to the flet.
"Naneth!" I called. My mother soon appeared, her expression inquiring. Rand had also come into the entrance hall and stood now in the doorway. "There is a courier at the stair, and he carries an urgent message."
"Well, what are you standing there for? Come!" my mother commanded. "And you as well, Randir!" she beckoned before hastening out the door. As I followed Naneth at a considerably lessened pace, I contemplated what message the elf was carrying. Nothing could prepare me for the scene I witnessed when I rounded the tree.
Naneth was staring in silent shock at the regal elf, who I only now recognized as the captain of my father's guard. She held a single piece of parchment in shaking hands that threatened to release the paper. The agitated captain had a look of deepest regret upon his ageless face. I walked reluctantly to Naneth and plucked the parchment from her hands. There, written in flowing script, was a grave summoning.
The elf Faeron Tegaladion has been severely wounded in battle by a poisoned orc blade. He rests in the houses of healing in the palace. The presence of his family is requested, for he is in grave danger of fading.
I stared at the note, not comprehending. When I finally realized that my father was dying, I sank to the ground and sobbed, the note falling to the forest floor.