25th of Rethe, Year 3019 of the Third Age

This morning, I woke with a heaviness in my chest, the memory of yesterday’s events still vivid in my mind. The pain from my wounds lingers, a constant companion, but it is not the physical suffering that weighs on me the most. It is her, Almariel. Her presence lingers like a fragrance that clings to the air long after it has faded, impossible to ignore. I find myself replaying the moments we shared, the way she laughed at my jest, the way she looked at me as though she could see through all the layers of deceit I have woven around myself.

When she entered the room today, I could feel my heart quicken, a response I could neither control nor fully understand. She went first to Landros, as she always does, checking his bandages and whispering words of encouragement that I could barely hear. He remains unmoving, trapped in a world between life and death, his fate hanging by a thread that Almariel seems determined to hold onto. There is a part of me that envies him, envies the care she bestows upon him so freely, so selflessly. Yet, I know it is foolish, for I have no right to such feelings.

Finally, she turned her attention to me, her expression softening as she approached my bedside. The pain in my leg had flared up again, sharp and unyielding, and I must have grimaced, for she quickly moved to prepare more of the herbal salve. As she applied it, her hands gentle against my skin, I tried to distract myself from the discomfort by focusing on her. Her eyes, so full of warmth, seemed to catch the light as she worked, and I found myself lost in them, unable to look away.

“Does it still hurt?” she asked, her voice a soothing balm to my troubled thoughts.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice in that moment. The pain was there, yes, but it was not what consumed me. It was her, her proximity, the scent of her hair, the soft sound of her breathing. I wanted to say something, anything, to break the silence that hung between us, but no words came. I felt as though I were on the edge of something, a precipice from which there could be no return.

As she finished, she looked at me, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “You must rest,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “You’ll never heal if you keep pushing yourself like this.”

I wanted to tell her that it was not the pain that kept me awake at night, but rather the thought of leaving her behind. I wanted to tell her that I feared I was falling into something deeper than I had ever anticipated, something I could not afford to let myself feel. But instead, I simply nodded, my voice lost to the emotions that churned within me.

She lingered for a moment longer, her hand resting on my arm, and I could have sworn that she was about to say something more. But then she drew back, leaving me with nothing but the memory of her touch, the soft warmth of her skin against mine. As she turned to leave, I found myself wanting to reach out, to call her back, to ask her to stay just a little longer.

But I remained silent, watching as she moved away, her presence slipping from the room like the last rays of the setting sun. And now I am left alone with my thoughts, my heart heavy with the knowledge that I am growing too attached, too entangled in a life that is not meant for me. I cannot stay here, and yet the thought of leaving her behind fills me with a sense of loss that I cannot fully explain.

I must remember who I am. I am Tarandil now, yes, but I am also Narukhadaran, a man who once sought to bring this kingdom to its knees. I cannot afford to forget that. And yet, every time she is near, I feel those convictions waver, like a ship caught in a storm, unsure of its course. The battle within me rages on, and I fear that I am losing ground.

For now, all I can do is wait and see what the morrow brings.