Mortals: A Case Study (On Misconceptions)
Thorenhad, The Trollshaws, above the Bruinen Gorge
20 Hrívë in the Reckoning of Imladris
I can think of few better additions to this study than to touch upon the subject of Misconceptions. These are, of course, ideas based upon inaccurate or flawed information – and as I am discovering, I as a Lore-mistress can fall victim to these as easily as anyone else.
If my relationship with and growing love for Cutch, my own bespoken Mortal, has shown me anything of value - and it has many times over – it is that so much and so many of my established notions and ideas, even those I considered axioms of life, can be challenged and amended; even in cases, overturned. I find myself in recent months awakening to each day wondering what new facet of truth Reality shall present to me this day.
Since my last entry, Cutch and I proceeded in our trek from Falathlorn to Imladris in stages of mounted rides going from dawn to dusk, putting as many leagues behind us as our faithful mounts might allow. Initially, seeing that Cutch was astride his powerful rouncey, I knew that my mount Gairion could not keep up the pace; therefore I elected to ride Dagorlach, my own spirited courser. As we rode out from the Forsaken Inn, we shared unspoken smiles as we urged our mounts to a trot, then a canter, then a full-out race along the East Road. In this wise, we covered the distance from the Inn to the feet of Amon Sûl in less than a day, passing into the vast distances of the Lone-lands before making our first camp.
The next day saw us riding out once more to reach the old fortress of Ost Guruth, an abandoned place now occupied by the Eglain, a group of Men of the same heritage as the Bree-landers, but more independent and willing to make a home for themselves in these lands far from towns and orderliness. Cutch has been among them far more often than I have been, and their mistrust of Elves was smoothed by Cutch’s presence and persuasion. We gained their grudging hospitality for a night’s lodging within their walls, camping in a corner of the fort’s expanse.
And here was my first dispelled misconception. In past encounters the shock value of my Elven heritage among Mortals can open many doors and provide needed leverage in any conversation; not so with the Eglain. Even my own assertive demeanor did not assuage their distrust. It was Cutch and his ease of speaking with our hosts that provided us with shelter. Not only did I need to rethink my effect on Mortals, but also Cutch’s value among his own kind.
Just before the dawn we rose and broke our camp, and stood outside the crumbling battlements gazing eastward, planning our ride and guessing as to the leagues we should cover this day. We agreed to another ride at speed, covering more distance until, just as the Sun began westering in the skies and the shadows lengthened before us, we reached the Last Bridge over the Mitheithel. As we crossed the river and entered the Trollshaws, we encountered a camp of Elves out of Imladris, watchers of the Bridge and the roads both east and west.
Here, it was my turn to smooth over the encounters and state our business in these lands. In contrast to the suspicious Men, the Elves received us gladly and offered us space by their hasty camp in welcome. This was my second misconception: that my own kin would impede, if not outright bar our passage for no other reason than I was in Cutch’s company. Two reasons did the Elves give me for this display of welcome: that it was our intention to travel to Imladris for the Yule celebrations; and my own name, still known among the denizens of Imladris with familiarity. We accepted both and rode out once again with the dawn.
The passage of the Trollshaws has taken us thus far two days, due to the wildness of the region and the twisting and curving of the Road that lessened our pace considerably. Toward the ending of the day we passed up the Bruinen Gorge, guided by a Elven-scout who hailed us as we approached, and bade us accompany him to the outpost of Thorenhad, not far from the Ford of Bruinen. A rest of our weary mounts, and our weary selves, was called for, and we were both relieved to see the watch-fire of Thorenhad leaping up among the trees, beckoning us in to our ease.
I compose this entry and associated notes by the light of a cheerful watch-fire, my boots and leggings stripped off, my bare legs and feet warming by the fire. Cutch lays next to me, having rolled himself in several blankets and furs, and is already beginning to snore; our nightly ritual of whispering to him in his sleep quiets him. And I am now pondering my third misconception: that all these long years and ages, I have dismissed Mortals as useless, an impediment to good order and behavior, even a pestilence to be expunged. All along our adventures together, Cutch has proved and disproved so much that I thought as irrefutable truths.
We complement each other.
We complete each other.
Can I ever redeem myself for being so wrong?
Final Entry: Conclusions
