Rain. Always rain.
Derathon gazed over the horizon, hoping to see even the smallest sign of an end to the endless sea of grey clouds that had been over the forest since autumn began. He has always disliked getting wet when it was not his own decision.
“Elder?”
Derathon stared at the old man in front of him. He had always hated having to wait as the elder did his thinking, mostly because he tended to do it while staring silently at the one asking questions.
“We are an old, old people with many names. The elves call us Drúedain, “Wild Men”. “Púkel-Men”, by Dwarves. To the Rohirrim and the Gondorians we are known as Woses. And amusingly enough: Oghor-hai, by the Orcs. Today, I will refer to us by our own, ancient name. The one that we have gone by since before the ancient elves gave us a name in their tongue, Drughu.”
The elder continued his uninterrupted stare as he continued speaking in his droning fashion: “Do you know why we always have rain for months at a time?”
Derathon blinked as the elder finally gave him a reason to speak.
“I... Because of the white mountains. The Ered Nimrais... They are too tall for the skies to cross abo-...Wait. This is not what you called me down from the beacon of Eilenach for. Everyone in the forest could tell you this. You also know that I am supposed to stay there for three months. It is my turn to do so.” Derathon stares at the elder, visibly annoyed.
“I love the man as if he was my grandfather, but sometimes I just wish that he’d let me do what I have to do.” Derathon thought to himself.
“It has always been said that patience is a virtue, young one. Perhaps you have forgotten your place?” The elder implied patronisingly, tilting his head to the side.
“Ye-... No. Sorry. Continue.” Derathon takes a deep breath, attempting to reclaim his calm.
“Seeing as you seem so eager to return to beacon duty, I might as well just come out and say it. You are not going back, at least not if you choose to accept my quest. It is a task that will not be easy on your own, but it is required for the good of our people. I need you to go into the weste-...”
Derathon stared at the elder for quite some time as he went on about his mission.
Along the White Mountains... Past Edoras and through Rohan... Through Fangorn and Lorien... Over Caradhras by the Redhorn Pass and into the Western parts of Middle-Earth: Eregion and Eriador, the former northern kingdom of Arnor.
He would have to travel north to where the river Mitheithel and Bruinen turns into Gwalthio, north-east of Tharbad, and into the Trollshaws. Once there, he then has to turn west into the Lone-lands until he reaches the Weather Hills and into the Bree-Lands, on his way to his end destination: The lands of Evendim, west of the Northern Downs.
His mission would be to contact the Dúnedain of the North, the “Men from the West”, in order to hand them a coded message that to Derathon himself made no sense.
“I...” Derathon started with, looking at the elder with disbelief in his eyes.
“Why me? Why now? Surely there are many others that would be far more capable of carrying out such a feat. Even if I was able to actually get to the old kingdom of Arnor by the path which you have chosen for me, it would take me far too long for such a message to be effective, surely? I would never be able to reach it before the 23rd of Nénimë! (Númenorian calendar. 23rd of Solmath in the Bree and Shire Calendar. And the 13th of February in the Modern World Calendar. )”
“Child, do not complain before such an act is needed. As I said, it is your decision whether you choose to accept my task or not. As for the route, yes, going past Isengard would be easier, yet doing so would mean having to sneak past the Uruk-Hai near that cursed place and then you would have to somehow manage to get past the hordes of Wild Men in Dunland. While I do have faith in you, child, that would be a little too much to expect from even our senior marksmen. “
“When it comes to the reason for the trip, I will give you a letter that you would be able to read for yourself, should you choose to accept. I would rather not speak to you of it should you refuse.” The elder finally turns silent once again, starting at Derathon as he awaits the reply.
“I accept.”
Derathon let out a long, drawn out sigh as he stared down at the fire. His wounds were still not fully healed, but at least he was not dead, thanks to that ranger. Elendraen, he thinks she called herself. His head still gives pain as he turn around, looking out at Chetwood. After an encounter with a band of Bandits and a few half-Orcs, he was left badly hurt at the side of the road with a rough blow to his head and with only one old, almost broken spear. It had taken him several days to get his memories back, yet as he remembered most things about his mission, he was unable to remember the reason for it. And why he was to seek out the Dúnedain of the North was also unknown to him.
Filled with frustration he threw a rock towards the fire, causing bits of scorched wood to fly off away from the fireplace.
“What am I to do now? I cannot just return home after all that. Even thought I did find-.. Or well, got found by a ranger, I am only able to remember everything else other than the message in the letter. The letter which was lost to those damned bandits.”
Derathon took a deep breath before letting out yet another long, drawn out sigh.
“I guess I should better keep going...”
