I have decided to begin writing in my diary again. Last time was years back, when I first left Harad. I suppose this is because I prefer to read rather than write unless I have something I need to get off my mind. I actually tend to use it as my own way of opening up, if only to myself and the book itself.

This poem was not Aurthiel's writing, but the writing of her former lover, Alasornaion. While investigating and clearing his possessions, investigating his treason, this poem had been found, written in Sindarin and hidden away. Not only did the poem convict him guilty, but it explained his reasons for what he had done. Aurthiel always kept the poem with her, even wrote music to it and performed to herself.

Aurthiel played this song for her daughter, then known as her niece, while training her in Eriador.

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As the confused silence in the guardroom seemed to lengthen, Elsa could hear a hubbub starting in the hall...the sound of distant footsteps, running...a shout…a steadily ringing alarm. The prisoners had apparently finally realized they were free…and the true prison break had begun. Elsa realized she didn’t have much more time before her problems multiplied.

The pounding of her feet resounds like the drums of war resounds like the beat of her heart burning in her breast. Smoke and ash chokes out the sky above and holds it in wretched darkness. Not even the slender rays of silver moonlight break through the thick clouds to offer the favor of the Valar upon the sight of this war, where fair fey fall and fairer are sundered.

There was always more to be done and the Lady was not exempt from this fact. She had physically settled into Bree-land for a good while now. But currently, her heart and mind were leagues away. It was difficult for most onlookers to understand what troubled her. Nor would she ask for a shoulder to cry on. The blood of Eorl made her stubborn. She lingered a moment outside to put on a mask of professionalism her head was held high and her shoulders swung backward.

Bexly sits by the fire trying to find the right words for the song floating around in her head. She takes out her old leather-bound book and scribbles down her thoughts:

“Cease your bids for murder, you wretch,” she hisses, letting loose a stone across the ground. The heavy thunk where it sinks into the dirt sends a cry of alarm into the air as one crow takes flight; following it are many others, joining in the cacophony of piercing screams as they take into the night sky. The absence of the crows milling around offers her little comfort where she sits, by a cold hearth, acting as the lone warden to a dead man.