I flew with the dragon again. I was the dragon. I was strength. I was courage. I was cleansing fire. I was power. I was life. I was death. I was free of fear.
I watched little beings come to life and then watched them wither away somewhere below me and I knew of all their comings and goings. I judged the world and found it wanting. And I burnt the world. I cleansed it. I dried river beds. I brought down mountains. I set ancient forests aflame. When my task was done I longed to be in the place bathed in sunlight and my wings carried me there. But the hearth was cold, the herb garden wilted and dry, the vegetable patch trampled, and the bed empty. I knew that death had touched this place, and I screamed until the very foundations of the world shook and trembled, and ... until Mara woke me up with a firm shake to the shoulder.
"Yer wanna shu' up or yer gonna regret it. We all wanna sleep here, aye?"
It's the dead of night but the full moon bathes the countryside in silver light, enough for me to write. Tendrils of thin mist lie low over Rushock waters ahead of us but the sky is clear and the air is cold and crisp. I've managed to calm down the pounding heart and I'm back under my covers. The dwarves are snoring away but I can't sleep, the image of the cold, lifeless hearth before the eyes of my mind.
We are going to leave the Shire soon. Mara mentioned that we might speed our journey up once we reach Needlehole but as usual she failed to say how and why. I've given up on asking questions or trying to influence the decisions made by Mara. All I need is to lie low and pass unnoticed and this little caravan is perfect for that, no matter how slow it is. The hobbits treat all dwarves politely - as is the custom of the Shire - but not without suspicion, and my dwarves mirror this behaviour quite well. That keeps the usual nosiness of the halflings at bay and keeps me hidden.
The question of what I'm going to do once I reach Kheledûl remains. Can I enter the docks through the main gate? Yes, but I will be searched and disarmed even though you cannot call the Spike a weapon. Can I scale the walls and sneak in? Unlikely. Can I come in from the river? No. Women do not walk freely there. They are most likely to be bound or caged in the holds of the ships, ready for transport - the very thought of their fate makes my skin crawl. Whichever way I enter I will be discovered, searched and brought to him. I know now I should have never let him know I live. I had a perfect disguise after his dwarves perished on the way back from Gondor and I should have remained in the shadow. But I thought I was going to free myself of my own past once and for all, and I sent for the sword. How was I to know I would find the will to live again? I am a fool, a bloody fool!
"... and for your own sake I hope you come willingly. We are friends after all, are we not?..." No, we are not and I would have laughed at these words before. I would have laughed because I thought there was nothing that could threaten me anymore.
I'm thinking about the dream. Is this some sort of a bad omen? I'm becoming like the dwarves themselves with their omens and portents. Even now my imagination is playing tricks on me and I'm thinking that something is moving in the mist. Or is there?
Ink has been spilt on the bottom half of this parchment and the whole sheet is creased and crumpled as if cast aside in a great hurry.
