Elgaraen

The sunlight beyond my closed eyelids paints the inside of my eyes red. Which day now?  ... is it hours or days ... my horse finds his own meandering way, I cannot help him or guide him. The loose stones click against his hooves. We are climbing, swaying in the saddle, weaker than a newborn, slumped over my belly. Where the crow and the girl and the dunlander are I have no knowledge. Mayhap he can follow my trail ... I am too enfeebled to care.

I am a ship in a sea of fools. She is an insidious worm chewing at the flesh of the apple. My patience runs thin, yet I watch her wriggling with amusement.  I keep my anger banked, a well-tended fire for the future.

The Dunlander is certain he has located the second stone. Nestled like a ravenous cookoo in the soft bounty of the halflings' Shire. By report a pretty, placid land of nothing and no-one, populated by childlike bumbling farmers intent on buccolic pleasures. Insular, isolated and adrift in a fantasy where the sun always shines and the butter is as fat and yellow as their own creamy cows. For folk such as these, not even lesser Men, but for these bovine- bellied gardeners, the last blood of the North spends itself.

The scratch of pen on paper, the flowing lines of my strong hand. The quiet splutter of the logs in the braizer; cold in the north, even in summer. The rich red wine. I am a man flushed with pleasure, deep in success.

In the deep quiet of the dead of night, my favourite hour. I am blessed with the need for little sleep. Is this a change in me, wrought by my service over these long years, or a gift of my blood? I do not know, but the joy of the silent hours is a precious pleasure.

She is finally fast asleep, lost in dreams.

Pleasant ones I hope... she has already suffered too much.  Her... wound... has been taken care off. It no longer bleeds nor it brings her pain.
Foolish woman... what have you brought onto yourself? Despite all of your pride and resistance... you are now half-way between your and my side.. I wonder if you even realize that.

The world is a game - and how I love it. My fingers pick up and place each pawn. See the elven maid Celebhir wither in the high tower, the Rook's emprisoning rookery. This northern Woman, a Queen in my hand. The second stone discovered - my Dunlander's quest - like a Knight in a tale.

My Poppinjay clicks his piece down upon the board, pulling me from my distraction. He smiles, a slow lazy pleasure. He knows I will not chide a man for using his intelligence. The word slips from his lips, his eyes dance with the rare moment -

'Check'

Her imagination roams a tired circle, a hobbled northern nag. She is satisfied by the crumbled walls of the dry field she plods through. She seems to take delight in the fading of Arnor, in the slow withering of her people. Give her an open gate, and like a dim-witted child she will shut it fast again, prefering the small compass of the known to the vast and glorious world beyond.

I have seen them. Yes, of course. Awakening, yet ever-awake in the mind of their master. Hidden like precious pearls within the tight-closed shell of the black land. Shivered at their sightless gaze, groaned under the thrilling agony of their apprehension - I am a favoured Man.

There are few women here. Those that live amongst us are either cooks or whores. Many are both. And even those who come disparaging the thought of lying on their back for a coin or for the offer of a strong protector, are usually put to whoring by the men in the end.

Thamas Lorn, 44th day of Echuir