By the light of …. Etc.
My dear friend,
Last night sleep fled from my bed, and as I was laying on the bed watching the shadows dance around the ceiling, my mind drifted rudderless and came ashore this notion most disturbing, the idea got stuck and made me feel dizzy, the walls twisted and turned over me and suddenly there was no up and down, nor left or right, all the world was spinning out of control and I was shaken and scared, left panting and sweating over a bed in the middle of nothing, out of time, lost in oblivion.
There is this man Huldore, a northerner, a mere farmer with some combat training, unlearned, barely able to write his name or speak properly, a blunt and crude creature, baseborn. He is a fellow member of The Blades, how he came to be one escapes my imagination. The first time we clashed was in a tournament, I came with confidence to face this peasant, rushing to crush him under my hammer, but he proved resourceful beyond my expectations and soon he was pressing me, trying to turn the tables and I was forced to take a gamble of blows with him, his guard had proved too difficult to overcome but his gear was of low craft, that of a poor footman and I knew he wouldn't resist a sound blow, I had confidence in my plate armour to hold his blow so instead of parrying his slash I stroked at him simultaneously. The gamble worked and I toppled him, but the price was high… his blow was like a furious wave breaking on a cliff, harder than anticipated, it twisted and pierced my shoulder plate, biting on my flesh and effectively leaving me in no shape to face further opponents, the joy of victory turned sour in my mouth, and on top of it came the sudden realization that I would have been cleaved in half by that baseborn man if our gears were of the same quality.
The second time we clashed was in a barehanded brawl, once again my skill should have been able to overcome him but the man proved hard and resilient as an ox, even so I managed to corner him against a table a punish him soundly, only to be beaten back by this low man and be left down on my knees, bested. The fire of victory suddenly turned to ashes.
The third time involved no fighting but skill, the man challenged me to a fishing contest, a fishing contest with me, an old salt sailor blessed by Ossë, how naive of him. Obviously I bested him soundly but only to be deceived and left only with weeds in my hand. I was outraged, being played and outsmarted by such a dull mind was one of the heaviest blows I have taken. Since then we have kept clashing and though I am the best man, his superior in every way, he always manages to snatch definitive victory from my grasp, filling my mouth with ashes.
Yesterday I caught a magnificent 15 pounder, and just when I was gloating on rubbing his face with it, Faithful Fuynur informed me of Huldore's last catch, a golden haired, fair skinned, young girl. Once again baffled by this simple man. I could easily go and seduce a prettiest woman than his, but I feel deep in my heart he would find the way to take the fun out of my victory, he would probably get married and start pumping out little Huldores until all the land ends filled with his kin.
Is it an Omen dear friend that I, the Son of Castamir, am not able to overcome this simple man of the north?, is this land as hard to master as well?, are we to be baffled and robbed of victory by this low people when even fair Gondor fears us and tremble at our name?.
The world is turning fast now and the future is uncertain and obscured even to the wise, but my heart is filled with a certain dread that like a cat, this northerner and his kin will always land safe on their feet, while we, the highborn stumble and fall to our doom. Some nights I envy this man….
((this paper is torn and crunched to a ball, and is laying on a corner of Ar-Iskandir's safehouse fireplace, amazingly oblivious to the fire))
((written in Adûnaic))
