I left Far Chetwood yesterday. I had no wish to, but I know that my return to Bree was necessary.
I came within sight of the great hedge wall and almost lost my nerve. Seeing them again, expecting the worst, knowing that I must make ammends and yet being uncertain as to why; it is all overwhelming and very intimidating. I stood there for a goodly while, just staring. I almost turned back.
Flannery found me there, though. I recall her dimly from my time before. I made clothes for her young son at the request of Blodwynn and I think that I have spoken to her a few times since. She was nice to me that day; kind. She spoke the words I needed to hear, convincing me that turning away now would be the worst thing I could do. She was even kind enough to walk with me back to the inn and buy a cup of tea for me.
Having just walked in from the wilderness, still in my angmarim furs, I had no coins about my person. Oddly, perhaps, my attire drew not a single odd glance from the few others present, although Flannery did comment on both that and my ear-ring; correctly guessing my origins from both. She promised, though, not to speak to it of anyone, knowing that I would likely be less welcome here were that truth known - even if I did grow up in these lands.
I have been here now a day only, so it is no surprise that I have not seen any of my friends. The waiting is difficult on me. The more hours pass, the more time I have to dwell on the outcome of our meeting and the more apprehensive I become.
In an effort to distract myself from those worries, I decided to read through the diary I kept during these past months and try to reconcile myself with all that has happened. Unfortunately, my entries were sporadic and often rambling. I could make little sense of any of it. In truth, it feels like I was not the one to do the writing for I simply cannot put myself into the shattered picture painted so inexpertly upon those pages. Through the reading, some few things came back to me but it is almost like I was not a part of it; instead watching the happenings from a distance. Nevertheless, I recognised the loops and whirls of my own penmanship. I wrote it without a doubt. In the end I became frustrated and disgusted with myself as well as the contents of the book.
In a fit of pique I consigned the journal to the flames of the hearth in the back room of the Prancing Pony. I did not stay to watch it burn, although a part of me thinks that I should have. Perhaps seeing that part of my past going up in smoke might have been a cathartic experience. Then again, perhaps not. I will never know for certain now.
