Beloved Jothindur,

I knew humans were short-lived and therefore short-sighted and impatient, but I thought the women were supposed to be easier to get along with then the men. Kryllin is the kind of human who gives humans a bad name. She complains constantly, has no sense of proportion, and is as spoiled a child as I have ever known. I have to keep reminding myself that is indeed the problem: she’s a child. A child. Older than our own two, but still a child. Not even yet twenty, I think, which is — well, I’m not sure how humans count that, actually. But practically an infant.

Although I take it she’s reached physical maturity, since her mentor was so concerned for her chastity. Clearly her own worries lie more along the lines of sorting out how to part with it.

I’m conflicted: my mission is to protect her, but does that include protecting her virtue? If she were to choose to accept the advances of Malik or Kollsvein, or any other, would I be neglecting my duty to her? If she were an elf, of course, it would be her own choice to make, but she’s a human and they have different standards regarding these matters, I suspect because they are so fecund.

If she were to choose one, it seems Kollsvein is the more likely, and to my mind the more suitable. He’s easily as young or younger than she, but a good hearted boy. He reminds me of Agereth when he was younger: earnest and brave, and eager to prove himself.

Kryllin did spend some time in conversation with me after the battle with the goblins, talking on matters of mortality. She seemed quite melancholy, very pessimistic, and I’ll admit it was alarming how seriously she was injured and how hopeless our quest seems. She asked about my past, but of course I could not tell her. She also asked me: would I rather be dead?

No.

No, I would rather be alive, with you at my side, enduring the petulance and growing pains of our own Methr and Osa. How I miss you. But I survived, and so I will continue to survive, until my death can serve what ever purpose it must. And then, if the poets and clerics are right, perhaps I will feel your hand in mine once more.

Yours in Bond Past Life,
Thuringil