Yr aelwyt honn, neus kud dynat,
Tra vu vyw y gwercheitwat...1
After dinner, Heledd, a young woman who served as our translator, spoke with me long. I am starting to better understand this language—despite the amusement of Gotu, we conversed effectively if brokenly in Dunlendish.
Of their poetry I understand less, though the music of it is beautiful. I have transcribed what Heledd told me as best I can, though I do not know how accurate it is. One day I hope to return here, and record the poetry of these people. It is so little known in the North, yet haunting, full of the same sorrows as the songs of my people, though the key of it is different.
The text recorded here is part of a longer song—it speaks of an abandoned hearth covered in nettles. And I think of my own hearth, so warm and welcoming in my memory. Yet it now too is dark, though I doubt there are any nettles this late in the year.
Several pages of linguistic analysis, poetical reflections, and vocabulary lists follow this. Then the handwriting abruptly changes from an even, elegant hand to one written by a more distraught mind.
I have never been so exhausted.
I blacked out standing twice last night after we left Galtrev. Thurintier had to grab my arm to keep me from falling, and we finally stopped to make camp. Yet as exhausted as I am, I still woke before him. Glirwing is awake, but I am not in the mood for conversation.
I hope when we get closer to the Dragon clan camp some plan occurs to me. If I knew where Ellisiadora went, I would still be inclined to track her down, as, assuming she did not decide to kill us all, her skill set would undoubtedly be useful.
But Thurintier vehemently opposed trying to convince her to help, and it would certainly be a risk. Could I even find her? Do I wish to?
So at present, my plan is to scout the camp, and hope the Valar take pity and show me some sign of what I can do. Ideally without killing my remaining friends.
I really don’t know why they are still here. I told them to leave if they wished it, and that neither honour nor my own expectations would bind them to a seemingly hopeless mission. But we are all resolved.
And I only have a week before Lynwelyn returns—I do not know what his arrival will bring, but I cannot imagine it will be good for Alphdir or for us.
That is only if Li does not decide to kill him after all. Glirwing believes that she did not intend to harm us, but is that still true?
It seems to me that when she joined us, she must not yet have decided which course to take. Killing us, or at least my husband must have been at least a possibility, for if she had wholeheartedly wished me to succeed, she would have made sure I had the information I needed.
My trust is not easily given out here in these lands I do not know—but still it is too easily, or at least without discernment. For nothing prepared me for this, though I saw the dark artifact she carries so blithely. She is unafraid to touch evil, unseeing of how it has touched her. Or perhaps she does see and cares not.
No. I cannot now dwell on this. If I survive, then I shall grieve for the betrayal of one I trusted. Now, it is the loss of an ally, and one more unknown in the world, but not yet are we defeated.
Thurintier flew into a rage at the reveal of Li’s duplicity, and his mind is still clouded with anger. I need a clear head, though my mind is foggier now than this morning mist. The only stories that come to my mind now are of Uldor and Gorlim which is hardly comforting.
I need information. There has to be a way.
1. Welsh poem text is Diffaith Aelwyd Rheged.