There has never been a time when I have classed myself as ‘wise’, nor have I ever really accepted the majesty of my people, or realised the responsibility that comes hand in hand with being counted amongst them. Yet there are still some that wear the burdens and pride of old as if they were their own raiment. They are remnants of the distant past, ghosts of my memories made flesh.
I have heard on previous journeys and adventures of my own of the Dwarves’ claim that every so often, one of their own is born in the likeness of their most revered father, Durin. Some claim that perhaps it is even Durin himself reborn.
Even now, one walks among the kindred of Men. Aragorn, son of Arathorn he is named and some even of the Elves exclaim that he is of the likeness of his forebears, that the splendour of Númenor can be found again in Middle-Earth.
Why should it not be then that the spark of Fëanor still burns hot in one of my dearest friends? Every so often I look at her and fully realise the power that lives within a spark.
Oh! How that ancient flame must have burned bright!
But it is not of he, the Doom of the Noldor of whom I speak, but of Danel Istanis, she of Caranthir’s people.
At this moment, the night closes in around us and the sounds of the forest become louder with every passing hour. Eyes gather on the edges of the firelights and the soldiers of the Malledhrim draw close about their sources of warmth, their hoods drawn up and they speak little. Yet with all the clamour of the wild, we have arrived on a quiet night. So oft do the forces of The Tower press this camp and the noises of steel on steel ring out in the mirk, the terrible war-cries of the orcs are carried on the wind and the wails of the dying all too loud for those who listen on behind the lines. I have heard tales of men gone mad under these boughs. This I can well imagine for there is no rest in this place, only a constant assault on the mind. Perhaps this is why I find myself unable to sleep still.
Estarfin, it seems, does not share the same problem! Yet he will be glad of the rest soon, no doubt. I fear that his skills will be tested sooner than I would wish. I earlier warned him that this was no idle adventure of ours where we have room to be careless and we meet our foes with smiles on our faces. We will find no ragged band of purposeless mountain goblins here and no chance to share a wine, revelling in our small victories over wargs and… other residents of the forest.
No. We are not alone on this journey and there are others with us to protect and to see safely to our quest’s end.
But I digress.
I wrote before I lie here without sleeping, and I see before me the Lady Danel. She paces like one of the sentries of the wood and offers her aid to the wounded when it is required. And that is all too often.
This is to be the last of my ‘observations’, my commentaries on my companions. Since completing the previous entry, Rainith has left us in Lothlórien (which, I admit, has aggrieved me) and Elloen has joined us, and, it seems, has even offered his aid all the way to The Tower. This decision has confounded us for sure. Does he really know of what danger lurks ahead? He treated the idea of travelling ahead with such whimsy that I feel I know the answer. Still, I do not know him, and therefore I have little to write about him. Maybe later I will have enough to fill some pages, but until then, I will treat this as the final account.
When I first met Danel in the Hall of Fire, now far off in Imladris, I deemed her as proud and of nobility born high above one such as myself. I felt that perhaps she shared too much the traits of her distant kin, her copper-red hair an ever-present reminder of her spirit contained within, which every so often bursts forth in passion or rage.
It was Estarfin that brought us together, for the two of them discovered they had a shared past. They were both children of Thargelion of old and a strong bond developed between them as they reminisced of days lost to darkness. I would stand close by, half-listening to their happy tales whilst keeping my own memories at bay, and I learned a great deal of both Danel and Estarfin. And so it was that one day I found that between her and I also had a friendship flourished, and many of my preconceptions, doubts and opinions were proved false and others were realised.
I am loathe to write too much, for I fear what may escape onto the page. Perhaps there are some words that I do not wish to read, even from myself, so I will tread as deftly as I may.
She is beautiful after the manner of our people. Her grey eyes are a distraction for me at times and she is tall, even for one of the Noldor. She carries all the grace of a maiden and yet bears the quiet knowledge and countenance of her ancestors passed down through the years uncounted. There is great compassion in her also, and love for her friends, which is a quality unlooked for in the kin of Fëanor, yet well received by all who have been touched by it.
There are times when I wonder
That is enough. Even with the noises of the night, I must rest.
Even now, one walks among the kindred of Men. Aragorn, son of Arathorn he is named and some even of the Elves exclaim that he is of the likeness of his forebears, that the splendour of Númenor can be found again in Middle-Earth.
Why should it not be then that the spark of Fëanor still burns hot in one of my dearest friends? Every so often I look at her and fully realise the power that lives within a spark.
Oh! How that ancient flame must have burned bright!
But it is not of he, the Doom of the Noldor of whom I speak, but of Danel Istanis, she of Caranthir’s people.
At this moment, the night closes in around us and the sounds of the forest become louder with every passing hour. Eyes gather on the edges of the firelights and the soldiers of the Malledhrim draw close about their sources of warmth, their hoods drawn up and they speak little. Yet with all the clamour of the wild, we have arrived on a quiet night. So oft do the forces of The Tower press this camp and the noises of steel on steel ring out in the mirk, the terrible war-cries of the orcs are carried on the wind and the wails of the dying all too loud for those who listen on behind the lines. I have heard tales of men gone mad under these boughs. This I can well imagine for there is no rest in this place, only a constant assault on the mind. Perhaps this is why I find myself unable to sleep still.
Estarfin, it seems, does not share the same problem! Yet he will be glad of the rest soon, no doubt. I fear that his skills will be tested sooner than I would wish. I earlier warned him that this was no idle adventure of ours where we have room to be careless and we meet our foes with smiles on our faces. We will find no ragged band of purposeless mountain goblins here and no chance to share a wine, revelling in our small victories over wargs and… other residents of the forest.
No. We are not alone on this journey and there are others with us to protect and to see safely to our quest’s end.
But I digress.
I wrote before I lie here without sleeping, and I see before me the Lady Danel. She paces like one of the sentries of the wood and offers her aid to the wounded when it is required. And that is all too often.
This is to be the last of my ‘observations’, my commentaries on my companions. Since completing the previous entry, Rainith has left us in Lothlórien (which, I admit, has aggrieved me) and Elloen has joined us, and, it seems, has even offered his aid all the way to The Tower. This decision has confounded us for sure. Does he really know of what danger lurks ahead? He treated the idea of travelling ahead with such whimsy that I feel I know the answer. Still, I do not know him, and therefore I have little to write about him. Maybe later I will have enough to fill some pages, but until then, I will treat this as the final account.
When I first met Danel in the Hall of Fire, now far off in Imladris, I deemed her as proud and of nobility born high above one such as myself. I felt that perhaps she shared too much the traits of her distant kin, her copper-red hair an ever-present reminder of her spirit contained within, which every so often bursts forth in passion or rage.
It was Estarfin that brought us together, for the two of them discovered they had a shared past. They were both children of Thargelion of old and a strong bond developed between them as they reminisced of days lost to darkness. I would stand close by, half-listening to their happy tales whilst keeping my own memories at bay, and I learned a great deal of both Danel and Estarfin. And so it was that one day I found that between her and I also had a friendship flourished, and many of my preconceptions, doubts and opinions were proved false and others were realised.
I am loathe to write too much, for I fear what may escape onto the page. Perhaps there are some words that I do not wish to read, even from myself, so I will tread as deftly as I may.
She is beautiful after the manner of our people. Her grey eyes are a distraction for me at times and she is tall, even for one of the Noldor. She carries all the grace of a maiden and yet bears the quiet knowledge and countenance of her ancestors passed down through the years uncounted. There is great compassion in her also, and love for her friends, which is a quality unlooked for in the kin of Fëanor, yet well received by all who have been touched by it.
That is enough. Even with the noises of the night, I must rest.
