I wonder, sometimes, whether I am a traitor to our kind for taking this adventure. For shunning Lórien for the outside world. But, I had to find myself and what I mean. What place I have. The meaning of my long, exceedingly long life. I couldn’t learn that at home.
I had grown tired of other elves, their low-level depression and discontent. I was weary of the thought of going West as an escape from boredom and inability to want to intervene. I wanted to see for myself. So I did. No elves whining, telling me the inevitability of the outside world to destroy itself once again. I was done.
I spent much time in places of Men, of Hobbits. They were all charming and happy places, welcoming and kind to their guests. But after a while of sleeping at inns, or next to a friend under the stars in a wasteland, or in some sort of ancient ruins… I began to feel a strange feeling.
I wanted to go to Rivendell. I’d been before, as I said… but I needed to be around my kind. I needed to breathe the air we breathe, see the clothes we wear, speak the language we speak, and perhaps tomorrow have my hair styled in a better way by a real elven barber.
I lack no love for my kind. The elves of Rivendell, also seem to show the slight weight of depression, disinterest and disengagement from the world.. however, slightly less so, perhaps because Rivendell permits occasional contact with the world, whereas we in Lórien forbid it, and do not often venture outside. hey too seem tired, they too seem unconvinced that the world can be “fixed” or “protected.”
I see this must be common – I suppose it starts to grow with age, with how much some of us have seen for thousands of years. I’m beginning to understand and yet disagree.
I also realize, here in Rivendell, with my new dress and my beautiful columned bench, how much I miss you all back home. Oh, for home to be as close as Rivendell.
Namárië, I promise, you will see me again.