'I thought you would like to know, before our plans are made public, that Erestor and I are leaving soon,' Arveldir said.

Triwathon looked up from his seat at Arveldir's fireside and glanced from his former mentor to Erestor and back again.

'Really?' he asked, swirling the spirits in his glass. 'When, exactly? It is but that I thought you would be here a week or more yet…'

Arveldir glanced at his spouse with a smile, and Erestor nodded and explained.

'You were probably listening to good Healer Maereth; she would like, I think, to see me prove my fitness by racing through the canopy around the watch flets! But I am well enough to ride, if not to climb, and if I am not entirely recovered, then I think my full recuperation will not take place until I am at home and the burden of news has been shared out.'

'I understand. I… am sorry you have to bear this task.' Triwathon sighed. For him the worst of the grief was beginning to pass now, at last, with so much happening to demand he stir himself and make himself function, but he could still see the loss etched into Erestor's face, his fine features saddened, sorrowing. 'And I am sorry for those who have yet to learn it. What chance your Galadhrim friends will speak of it?'

Arveldir shook his head.

'I doubt they will reach Imladris ahead of us; they are on foot now, and we will be mounted. But if it were so, then… I do not know, they would not speak of him as we would, but it might be easier in some ways…'

'Yet rather I would have it to do myself, and find it difficult,' Erestor put in. 'To hear such tidings from those who barely knew our friend would lie ill with me.'

Triwathon nodded. Yes; he could understand that; having been present, having actually held Glorfindel in his arms… and difficult though it had been, how much harder it would have felt to learn of his death from another, even a sympathetic friend!

'We intend to set out tomorrow,' Arveldir said. 'It will be a long road, but eventually, we will come to its end.'

'I would ride escort with you, if I could, but our king has already said I am needed elsewhere… I am not sure I really am, but…'

'But he is the king.'

'And, what's more, I was caught out attempting to imaginatively interpret his orders on the day the convoy left… I dare not try such a thing again…' Triwathon gave a rueful grin. 'Sadly, I was halted before I could wave my friend Parvon goodbye, but at least I had seen him the night before.' He lifted his cup. 'This was one of his parting gifts; it seemed appropriate to share with you.'

'Then we are doubly grateful,' Arveldir said. 'Perhaps, when you write to Master Parvon, you will pass on our good wishes.'

'Of course.'

Write to Parvon…?

The thought had not occurred to him, and if he did, would his letter not get deselected from the messages for the Old Palace? And what would he say, in any case?

But the notion kept recurring; as he settled for the night, as he broke his fast in the garrison, during his work at the damaged villages… at one point, he was interrupted in his musings by a voice nearby.

'Work progresses, I see.'

'Sire!' Startled to hear his king's languid tones, he left off the work he was doing to turn and bow; Thranduil, mounted on his elk, was watching from the edge of the Heart Glade. 'Yes, my king, here at Elm we have nearly completed our work. Oak is further on in its restoration…'

'I have come from thence,' Thranduil said in bored tones. 'And am on my way now to Ash. It is regrettable the Galadhrim did not do more before they left… and yet perhaps they had done quite enough, would you say?'

'I think some of their ritual practices are not for us, my king.'

Thranduil barked out a laugh.

'Ha! Quite. Well-said, Commander. How long do you think before the work is done?'

'That's not simple to estimate, my king. To clear away the damage done by the fire, to take out the pipework and to return any salvage back to the palace in Oak, a day or two, here it will be longer… Ash has needed more work and I think is most damaged… really, Captain Narunir would be able to tell you more accurately than I…'

'Indeed? Then you need to spend more time at the villages and less in the New Palace. Very well. I want end-of-day reports from each of the three villages, brought to me personally, and directly, not left for the Palace Office to distribute, do you hear?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Very well. Do not let me interrupt your work further; you have much to do. Oh, incidentally, the talain should be disassembled as well, I have decided. No scrap of habitation is to remain. See to it that this is passed to the other captains.'

'Sire.'

And just like that, the workload was doubled...

Back in his rooms that night, Triwathon began a letter which he had little hope of seeing delivered, and so it was a rambling, untidy sort of letter – not in the scripting, for he wrote with a neat, precise hand, the letters flowing easily and tidily from his pen – but in the change of topic, the jumps and starts.

"…today I have new orders, to remove every sign of habitation from the three villages, down to the last talan screen… one could speculate that this is to make the villages even less appealing to any former residents, but officially it is to create a tranquil and calm environment suited to the memories of those whose remains are still undiscovered… but whatever the reason, it falls to me to now take day reports direct to the king… I have already spoken to Master Faerveren so that his feelings are not hurt… now, I do not mean that unkindly, but he does take things to heart so! At least he has his loving grandfather to shield him from rough soldiers like me… Our friends Arveldir and Erestor and the rest of the Imladris elves have left us; I shall miss our friends the Advisors… the horse Asfaloth is carrying Rusdir's nephews as they ride them home…"

"…as they ride them home…"

Parvon found himself smiling. This was the third time he'd read the letter, and it was just like his happier days in the New Palace used to be, punctuated by random conversations with Commander Triwathon. He crossed his legs at the ankles and adjusted the crocheted cushion behind his head, pulling the reading lamp closer to his side.

"…so this is the fourth day now that I have sat down to add to this message and I do not really know why it draws me still… well, this evening I have real news. His majesty has announced that he will leave for the Old Palace within the week; he wishes to see the final deconstruction of the villages for himself before he departs, he says. At the same time, the next convoy will leave for the Old Palace, and you will be hearing from the Palace Office with regard to the number and needs of the next group of refugees although, of course, we will need you to send the wagons back first… Master Merenor has agreed to put my ramblings under the same seal but marked for your personal attention, and I am grateful, for I had wondered whether or not there would be problems trying to write to you…"

He shifted position so he could reach for a beaker of wine at his side. The rooms were starting to feel like his now, and the letter from Triwathon felt like the finishing touch, a welcome home each time he picked up the pages. He read on.

"…Oh, and I had a conversation with our favourite corridor servants this morning. One, Haechor, I think it was, casually asked whether they would be needed now the horses from Imladris were gone… I offered him and his friend a transfer at once, if they would – down to the Old Palace where they would find not only plenty of horses and some elk, but the donkeys for the narrow carts and Mistress Araspen's experimental goats (I do hope she still has them!). He quailed and ducked his head and said, if I was not busy, he would like the honour of a private talk with me… you will never believe it, he and his friend turned up outside my office at the time I had suggested, and proceeded to confess all… they gave me the full details of the corridor conversation to which you were a party, and apologised most handsomely, and said, actually, they didn't mind the horses, just they were on mucking out duty all the time… so now they are part of the proper rota of yard duty and both seem delighted with the change; Iochon is a wonder with the saddle soap, so I am told, and Haechor likes grooming and braiding the horses… who would have guessed…?"

Parvon wriggled his shoulders down into the cushion and read the last of the letter.

"…hope this has found you well and you're settling in. Arveldir sent his best wishes to you. Be well, Parvon.

"Your friend, Triwathon."

Even though Triwathon was at the northern reach of the forest, the letter had brought him into Parvon's rooms, a presence of sorts. Parvon set down the letter and sat up to glance around, imagining inviting Triwathon in, showing him round, imagining his response… Yes. Perhaps all that was needed to make a home was a friend to share it with, however they might be present.