He stared up into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he could just make out the lines of the rough hewn logs that supported the roof above him. He remembered how big and safe those logs had seemed as a child. His father had worked on them himself – with help from others in the town, of course – but to Bregoan, he was the hero. It had seemed impenetrable.
Now, it could offer him no comfort. It was all he could do to keep himself from tossing and turning even now. A vague uneasiness stirred in him – three nights in a row! The snatches of restless sleep he was managing would not sustain him. He glanced to the window that looked out into the courtyard. It was a new moon, but the faint glow of starlight mingled with a fading night lightly illuminated the features of the houses of the village. About four hours till dawn, he guessed. Well, if I cannot get any sleep, perhaps I can do some reading.
Lighting the candle which stood on his bedside table, he quietly padded across the room to the chest where he kept his ever-growing collection of literature. Near the top lay a large volume wrapped in rough cloth. He had not even seen inside of it yet – besides what was open when he found it before the body of the Dunlending. It had seemed easier to put the whole thing behind him, and perhaps even forget this book. But, somehow, tonight…
He carried it over to his bed, and gently laid back its cloth covering. It seemed even more sinister than he had imagined here in the candlelight glow. The inlaid metals on the cover, and the places where they were missing, traced out sharp outlines of shadows. It seemed to him to be some cruel mountain ranges, worse even the stories of Caradhras the Cruel that he had heard from northern merchants. His curiosity was too great now, there was no stopping. He opened the cover and began gingerly leafing through the pages.
For a few moments, he seemed simply enthralled by the turning of the pages. The flowing script which filled page after page was accentuated at points by vignettes etched with a fine pen. Finally, he realized he could not understand a word of it. The script was familiar to him. It seemed to be a version of the Tengwar – elvish writing. He had seen it reproduced in small amounts in several of his books. But somehow this seemed different. The elvish words he knew all had a certain elegance, or decorum. The snatches of script he could even pronounce echoed none of that beauty. They were ugly sounding words, as if they had been spat out, every one intended as an insult.
He shuddered. How could script this beautiful hide such ugly words? And what does it all mean? He knew that it should not surprise him that he could not read it. It could only be expected, really. But he seriously questioned whether the Dunlending could either. The writing was certainly not of their style. The words, he shrugged, he couldn't tell. Perhaps. He kept thumbing his way through the book, looking for a clue, he told himself. Truly, the flowing lines of script seemed to hold something for him though. He could not take his eyes away. The sun was breaking over the horizon before he finally replaced the volume in the chest.
