After many days travel we find ourselves at the Bruinen Gorges. We have stopped for lunch, Arugru and I, and although I made certain to pack foodstuffs for him as well it would seem that he much prefers a fresh rabbit than the dried meats I carry.
Indeed, many times has he bounded off into the wilderness only to rejoin me hours later with a newly killed coney clutched between his teeth. Once or twice he has dropped it at my feet and run off to find another which I find to be a strange, but very sweet, thing for him to do. It had been my understanding that canines were possessive of their kills. Perhaps he simply dislikes the idea of me subsiding off the travel rations as much as he dislikes to eat them himself. He is, in so many ways, an odd but wonderful creature and I would not do without him.
I sit here now on the banks of the river chewing on a heel of stale bread. Arugru meanwhile is quite happily swimming back and forth in the water, occasionally barking as if to tell me to join in the fun. I may just do so before we press onwards.
The climb ahead up the High Moor will be difficult, I think, and perhaps the path to the south would be easier, but I have chosen this route specifically. If I am to do what I have set out to do, it would be better to walk the road I did back then and set the ghosts to rest along the way.
Even now, sitting here as the sun sparkles atop the surface of the crystaline waters, I can hear the soft echoes of words once spoken. It was a conversation on the beauty of the world and if he really was unable to appreciate it as I had been told. Strange that such a thing should come back to me after all this time, but fitting I suppose. I wonder if I shall hear more echoes of the past as I continue along my course.
