I have refrained from writing for a long time now. I will give a quick summary of my days travelling through a familiar Eriador.
When last I wrote, I was camped before the Redhorn in Wilderland, looking ahead to my climb of the fierce mountain. As is evident from me writing this very entry, I survived the pass and found my way into Eriador and its familiar sights. Most of my long years were spent in this part of Middle-Earth. I know its woods, rivers and mountains as good as any decent traveller. I know of its dangers too, for the wolves of Eregion are still prowling the land and I could hear their howls at night whilst hidden under my blanket. The Trollshaws are no easy road either, for their name was not idly given. I swore I saw something big moving through the trees.
At long last I found my way to the grassy hills of the Lone-Lands. From there it was only a short march to Bree where I spent a few nights recovering from my travel. Then onwards to Buckland and the Shire it was, where preparations were underway for one of their many feasts. I bought some dry leaf from the market in Michel Delving, the first pipeweed in a good long while! These halflings know a thing or two about smoking, I can give 'em that!
And after some good laughs at a few hobbit inns, I continued my road westward to the glittering waters of the Lune river.
Here, at the crossing, a memory unfolded itself before my eyes. It was the same memory that had come to me when last I was there, so many months ago on the second day of my journey east. The sight of Fruni and Frír smiling as Fikli grumbled over my joke. A good memory 'tis, though I cannot tell for the life of me what it was that I said that made them laugh, but it matters not. I see them clearly, as clear as if it was yesterday, passing here on our journey to the Lonely Mountain, a journey that would end in such sorrow and grief. The last of my kin perished by some evil fate.
As I had this thought, the words of the elf returned to me, almost as if he was whispering them in my ear, and suddenly I realised what was at stake should I bring these books home, and so I grabbed my satchel, took out the grim looking books and threw them from the stony bridge into the running water where they were washed away to the sea.
Alas, that I should throw away so idly what I swore to bring home whole. But no guilt gnaws at my heart and no regret haunts my dreams. The world is better off without the poisoned pages of a perished evil. May they wither in the cold waters of the sea and be read nevermore.
