It feels like it has been a lifetime since I have been in this situation...sitting in the main hall of the Prancing Pony near the fire, the sound of the night watch echoing outside, still some hours till dawn as I pen these words in my journal. Across the room old Barli listlessly sees to his cleaning, occasionally staring resentfully at me from sleepy eyes.
I woke suddenly some time ago from a dream that did not feel like a dream and I reluctantly left my Cyndwin warm and safe in our bed to come to the fire and consider what I had beheld without disturbing her. She waits so breathlessly for Fille's upcoming arrival that I have no desire to risk a cloud upon her sweet dreams.
In my vision I looked down about the black sharp stones of Angmar. I stood upon a precipice of Carn Dum as I did one dark day many years ago, while below me a river of death seemed to surge in my mind's eye. The tower was cold yet strangely comforting at my back and the air was filled with the acrid stench of sulfur and orcs that cannot be escaped in that horrid land.
Far below me, picking her way through the ragged stones of a rife, was a woman, not much more than a girl. Her garb and cloak indicated she was of the simple folk of Rohan, and as she moved horrid beasts lurked on all sides in ambush; orcs, trolls, spiders, wargs, morroval. At first I took the figure to be my Cyndwin and I cried out in terror, yet the girl was not garbed as a warrior, and her hair was darker then my Aza's golden mane. The girl was unarmed, save for a bronze scale in her right hand, and in her left hand an empty scabbard adorned with brass. As she moved through the rift, all the vile creatures that were arrayed there seemed to disregard her and she walked up the approach to Carn Dum unmolested and unafraid, finally standing before the Gate of Shadows itself. She struck the monstrous gate three times with the scabbard and the mass of iron and hatred slowly opened. As the gates lurched to a halt the voice of the False King himself echoing forth from the tower speaking these words. "That which you seek cannot be sought, that which you fight cannot be fought. You are without within, and under over. Change these things and things shall change."
I woke with those words echoing in my mind, chilling my bones and moving me to withdraw to protect Cyndwin from my misgivings.
Much of the dream is still shrouded in mystery but I know who the wandering girl of Rohan was, and to explain this I must relate a meeting I had the day before in the main room of the Pony, just a few steps from where I now write.
After myself and Cyndwin had been two days back at the Prancing Pony, awaiting our beloved Fille's return from the halls of Aule's children, I came upon a harpist plying her trade for the crowd before the Pony's hearth. She caught my attention for the charming look and cultured speech that made clear she was of the Mark, and I hoped that a friend of her own people may temper Cyndwin's desire to return to confront her past over hastily. This harpist, called Ynna of the Missing String, was fair of speech and feature though very young. She and I struck up fast acquaintance and whiled away some pleasant time in conversation and music, along with a pair of travelers from distant Rhun. As they were the first residents of that fell land that I did not have a need to slay soon after encountering, they too held great interest for me. The woman would not give her name nor remove her hood which shrouded her identity, but her male companion, or perhaps servant, was called Heng.
As I engaged in conversation with the harpist and the travelers from Rhun, Ynna soon told us of her sad tale. She had traveled to Bree with her elder sister, called Hildawyn, from their home of Thornhope in the Entwash Vale. They were in search of a woman thought to be a witch in the Entwash Vale, who possessed healing arts and was often found on the borders between the North Downs and Angmar. She knew nothing more save that her sister sought this woman's aid to treat a powerful man whose death could change the fate of Rohan itself.
Soon after their setting up a home in Bree, her sister departed alone for Angmar promising to return soon, leaving Ynna to fend for herself. That had been three long years ago, with poor Ynna marooned in a foreign land, unwilling to return to her home without her sister.
My heart was moved by this tale, but of course at first I assumed that after three years wandering aimlessly in Angmar her sister must surely be dead or worse. Then considering this strange healer I wondered if she may be of the Trev Gallorg, as their village of Aughaire is indeed between the North Downs and Angmar. It was possible the girl took refuge in relative safety there. The more I reflected upon it, the more I felt that there was not the tragic air of doom about the story, but rather the tang of mystery.
As the poor harpist spoke in frustration of her inability to interest any of the locals to search for her sister in fearsome Angmar, I needless to say offered my services as I know those lands very well and move through them with relative freedom. She leapt at the chance, and I promised to gather information from my allies in Aughaire and Gath Forthnir concerning this healer or a lost girl of Rohan.
After she excused herself to sleep, filled with renewed hope, the travelers from Rhun rightfully warned me against raising false hopes in the girl or leading her to her doom. They spoke with candor and wisdom and their concern for the harpist moved me, and I resolved to make very certain of the wisdom of a path before leading Ynna along it. Perhaps myself and Cyndwin would scout the child's possible routes in advance to uncover any of those nasty surprises Angmar is renowned for. In preparation I sent missives to the Ranger Helegdir in Aughaire and the doughty Hroar in Gath Forthnir but it will be some short time before they can respond, and having done what I could I retired to join Cyndwin in our chambers...until I was awoken by the dream.
It seems clear to me that the girl is indeed alive due to the portents of the dream...but the meanings of her apparent immunity from attack, the scale and the scabbard she bore, and the strange words intoned by the shade of black-hearted Mordirith are still shrouded in mist.
Perhaps a journey to Angmar will clear the questions away and lead to the girl's safe return, or at least news of her fate. I am touched by dear Ynna, and feel that I must do what I can to put her at ease and send her home properly and in honour to her kin.
At least such matters can distract me from anxiously awaiting Fillegedhiel of Gondor's return and imagining any manner of disasters that may have delayed her.
