mysterious relics

The young man lies limp in my arms. His head rests on my broad chest as trusting as a maid, rising and falling with the ebb and flow of my breath. He smells as sweet as a girl, for all his twenty years. The low light from the dim brazier picks out the curl of his eyelashes, as the herb mixture pushes him deeper into sleep.

My right hand lies loose over the back of his bruised neck. My left limp over the curve at the base of his spine. I am mindful of the weals of the injuries striping him.

I am not a brute.

And so - it is done. The course is set, and even the loss of my fine horse cannot dampen my elation. The stone winnows as it will, but winnows not I.

I return triumphant to my men, alive, exultant. My blood taken and accepted. No taint of madness behind my eyes, not driven wild by the raging powers within the stone like a lesser man. My own men congratulate me while they look on sidelong. What may I yet become unsettles them, warring with the tantalising question... how high will they fly, in my train? Confident that my rise must now be assured.

A page from Nimlith's notebook about the mysterious runes in Eriador.
((the plaintext is in roman letters and English for my convenience and yours. Nim does of course write in Tengwar and Sindarin :) ))

A page from Nimlith's notebook about the mysterious runes in Eriador.
((the plaintext is in roman letters and English for my convenience and yours. Nim does of course write in Tengwar and Sindarin :) ))