Hermit worries

It would seem events of late have taken a toll upon my thoughts. A tiredness I feel most days, a lack of wanting to do anything, to go anywhere. Why this should be, apart from old age, I cannot for the life of me fathom. I like nothing more than the company of a book, no matter what the subject, I have an appetite for reading anything. Me… Reading… The last scholar of reading and so-called lore I knew died a lonely man upon a bed that would not be fit for a pack-mule. Is this the fate that awaits me I wonder? To die alone? Grey of hair and thin of body? Found dead in a bed with a book upon my face? Ah! It will pass I am sure. It would seem that ghosts of the past haunt me daily now. A conversation with a woman in the Inn led only to my mind being filled with the memories of Cerise. A conversation cut short through the ill ways of my heart it ended up being. Though she showed more than a keen interest in me… It is not something I wish to pursue, and I do not wish to be pursued. And what should happen the next eve, outside the very same Inn? Why a ghost I thought I saw before my waking eyes… One I hold as my Brother standing before me, as real as the Bree rain he was. Turns out that he was real, and no ghost of ill work was he. Nylyan… Standing right as rain outside the Inn, claiming he knew I would come out should he stand there long enough, though he was surprised to not find me drunk. Though he may live a life uncountable times longer than men, he still forgets this, and is never one to rush in his acts or deeds. Oh aye… There was a wedding too. Joy, whom I see sometimes working in the Inn, and a fellow by the name of Drandr. I've seen him about the Inn before. Seems like a man of good heart, and carries with him the eyes of a man of Rohan. Thankfully not in a bag or pocket though, they're in his head, and he seems to be able to see alright. As it turned out, the wedding was a slight problem in two ways. First of all, it fell but one day after the anniversary of my wife's death. Secondly, it was next door to the house I now own, and folks quite rightly were none too quiet at that wedding. Though I admit, the sweet sound of melody through my open window was the likes of music I have but heard once before from an Elf woman at the west gate of Bree. Such a fair one she was, for an Elf. Her fingers fair stroked that harp she carried into having a life of its own. Then there was a matter with young Eoryn. Mugged she was. Quite a lump on the back of her head. I look upon that young'un like my own sometimes, though I shall try never to show it. She has a father, somewhere. I suppose if truth is told even to myself, her and Cym are the only two I would without thought give my life for. The only two of my kind anyway. Ciruil, Elithriel, and Nylyan I need not think a blink for. For an oath is something I have but one of, and it is to them. So… Here I sit. A pile of books beside me, paper, quill, and ink from my vertically-challenged friend of the shire. Perhaps one day I shall write a book of my own. If my Father could do so, then I dare say I can. But thereby lays another problem. Should I follow in his ways too much, would a fate similar to his lay before me? Nay, it would not. For I have no son to take bow against me, and no deeds shall I have done that such ill will would look down the shaft of an arrow to my heart. I shall end here, my friend. For an ache within my hand I have, and the pages of an open book sing my name as if they wish me to be lost for all days. Yarassi