Preface

In Middle Earth there are recorders of history, and keepers of Lore. you might recognize some of their names. Erestor of Rivendell, Dínendal Vardamir of Lothlorien, and Itarildë Eärfalas of the Mirkwood and Findecáno Falassion of the Havens.

If none of these names are familiar I wouldn't worry over much, times have changed so totally over the centuries that many names are forgotten.

We are of a certain group of elves that is set apart for the setting down of histories. We are a strange bunch. Normally we have to be orphans and unmarried. However the latter part of these rules was changed because both Elrond and Itarildë wanted to marry, to Celebrian and Cirdan respectively. Erestor, Dínendal and I are the only ones who remain unattached.

We are spread among the realms and spend most of our time writing. I am the quiet rebel of the Scribes, and I don't apologize. Normally we would only record that history that concerns the elves. Sometimes this includes other races but more often then not, we leave other races to themselves. I rebel in the sense that I will record the doings of men and dwarves as much as our own people.

A dear friend of mine once said that the deeds of men would out last the works of elves. As I watch the Eldar leaving Arda in droves, I can't help but agree.

It falls on my shoulders, I'm still not sure why, to bring this lost history to the foreground. I search out the histories that have been forgotten and or lost in someone's vast moldy library. In some cases I bring out stories that have been carefully hidden in the passages of time, stories that can only now be told.

I sit in my library writing this another ship is departing for Valinor. Lord Celeborn finally admitting his sea longing and the three last Wardens going with him. As I gaze at them waiting patiently to enter the vessel, I am reminded of a story involving the Lord Celeborn and the first High March Warden of Lothlorien. Now there's a story waiting to be told.

I watch the ship pull away from the dock and see Cirdan unfurl the golden sails. In only any hour they will have disappeared from the horizon as the sunset on another day. I will write to Dínendal in Lothlorien and see if he will send me the volumes containing the history of Maeglin and Castiel of Gondolin. I think it is time that people were told the truth. After all, we should love the truth, and wouldn't those involved be learning the truth of as soon as the boat reaches the Blessed Realm?

Dear Dinendal,

Greetings from the Havens of Cirdan. I would normally spend pages of the Havens gossip, but this time I decided that I would exactly ask for something in return. Please, in your next missive, include any volumes concerning Maeglin Dark Elf, and Castiel of Gondolin? I had purposed to commit the story to page at last.

With all Respect,

H.B

A week later a fat little package arrived from that recorder and I found a handful of letters, a few skinny histories of Gondolin and two journals inside. As I flipped through the first a letter fluttered onto the floor. Upon opening it I found the following.

Dear Cruel One,

Bribery is a crime, and if I had any sense I wouldn't send these along. But you know how I like gossip, it does make such interesting reading! However, instead of keeping these pretty books hostage I entrust them to your care. The letters I found in some chests Celeborn left behind. Don't ask me what I was doing poking around the royal talon either!

Whatever are you doing in the Havens anyway? I thought you were in Gondor? Write soon.

Hurriedly,

Dinendal Vardamir of Lothlorien …or what's left of it.

Poor Dinendal, he would never get over the loss of Galadriel. He often wrote, rather bitterly I might add, about her departure.

I returned to the volumes on my desk and upon inspection the first proved to be a short and concise retelling of the story. The language was pompous and proud, quite pretentious in verbiage and utterly dull. I am sure it has all the facts of the story and I would use it later, but first I separated the letters into piles by who wrote them. There was an interesting mix. Voronwë, Celeborn, Galadriel, Onduras, and even some by a healer from Nargothrond named Maeron.

Turning the slim leather journal over in my hands I opened it and began to read. The writing was childish and simple in the extreme, the writer could not have been more then fifty or sixty at the time. However, this was the journal of Castiel herself. At the bottom of the first page, at the end of the first entry was her name.

Castiel, Of Gondolin, Wife Of Maeglin

I found my favorite chair and settled in for a long evening read, keeping the dull volume, and letters by my side for cross reference. This may take longer then I thought.