Mirkwood

My days and nights are so busy, that I have scarcely a moment to think and there is even less time for writing in my journal. Culufinnel keeps a close eye on me and none of the Golden Host can leave the fortress without permission. The guards watch the gate carefully and know me by sight now, for I am the ludicrous person wearing the thick leather armour who can barely move or lift his arms, and I stagger around the camp as if dragging a plough behind me.

Parnard opened his eyes and stretched his limbs, feeling all weariness gone. He was glad to see the sun had gone down since he rested.

Whether it was night or not, the others did not know, but Belegos' instincts told him that the sun had set a while back. It was impossible to tell under the lichen-smothered boughs of Mirkwood. Day was only ever an almost imperceptible, lighter shade of darkness that passed quicker than what seemed normal. A storm had rolled overhead and it had been raining for hours. The company were sodden and miserable. The rain had soaked through their cloaks and hoods to run down their backs and collect in their boots.

In the Fortress of the Trees, Parnard stood before Captain Lomdognir to give report. He was overdue at camp by several days, and when he returned, he was covered in mud and had the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

It is a strange occurrence that of all the people in the wide world, I have run into that golden-haired brother of mine.

I am not entirely sure whether Parnard drives me to amusement or madness.

He sits here even now, stitching away, as is his wont. I have tried a number of times to make out the depiction of the threads but to no avail. They seem to be a cluster of colours to my eyes. Doubtless he sees things differently.

As he ran through the forest, the undergrowth clawed at his deep-green clothes with every stride and the odour of stagnant, rotting leaves filled his nostrils. Clutched in his one hand was a great, beautifully carved bow and in the other was a long, slender, elven knife. The air was heavy underneath the canopy of the trees, and even the elf, who was accustomed to the woods, felt the closeness of his surroundings. The forest-floor was carpeted in dead, brown leaves, fallen branches, and old lichen, but the hunter ran sure-footed and made almost no sound in his pursuit.

"Hear my laughter, not my feet.

As they run before me

hear them bleat.

Don-a-don-derry! Ho!"

"For my laughter cares not,

for their running cries sound

as their blood does clot.

Don-a-don-derry! Ho!"

"Hear the draw string thwak!

Day turns black!

With feathered arrows in their back!

Don-a-don-derry! Ho!"

"I bear no ill thought,