Estarfin

I lie down and look at the rest of the company around me, and I felt each one being alone with their own thoughts. Lord Veryacano had told us to watch over the massive camp of dunlendings warriors while he considered Parnard's idea of sending his falcon down.

The 15th day we left the Gravenwood, crossing through it not far from where I was caught in the accursed orc mangling trap. It was to the Gap of Rohan that we were bound, to recover Lord Anglachelm, at least, that was the idea.

It seems to be hours since I left lord Estarfin and Turmagor to go to sleep. And still sleep evades me as the past two days events keep coming to my mind. Oh, alright, not all these days’ events. Just some of them.

How Parnard basically owes his life to the fact he was suffering from more than one arrow wounds to beginning with and how I didn’t noticed the state of Parnard’s ankle, which could have healed badly, provoking a permanent fragility of the joint, chronic pain and blood circulation problem.

“Well done, O cracker-eating varlet! And so I am to be roused, and awakened out of my sleep, to listen to more of your sing-songing prattle! See how my leg is wound up, and my limbs yet trembling and shaking, from the putrid orc arrows? No, varlet, I suppose you must not, else you would give me a moment’s peace, and not twine my thoughts like some noisome, overgrown weed, filling my head up with a bramble chain of idle fancies. You must not suppose I need rest, varlet; but if you do, you are widely mistaken – “

He stood apart from the others, the faint glow of the fire still visible from the copse of stunted trees that he stood in. The rain had ceased its downpour hours ago but his cloak was still wet through, clinging to his light armour and inner layers of clothing. He stood still, leaning against the rough bark of one of the nameless trees, silent, uncomfortable and cold in his wet clothing. Drops of rain fell on him from time to time, a residue of the storms still left upon the dark leaves of the tree.

Below our camp lay the Gravenwood, and when we first arrived there, I was mightily heartened to see its pines and majestic oaks and many white birches, and from a distance, I thought its tall, straight, good-looking trees suited me. I do not know why it is called the Gravenwood by the Ranger-folk, but perhaps it is because the Wildmen abuse the bark of its trees for their barbarous carvings.

Yesterday I was scouting when the others moved towards the woods. I was surprised to find them in a place where I did not expect – a mixed camp of rangers and rohirrim, and apparently a ranger woman had led them there. I rejoined the others there and fell asleep. In the morning I woke up with a wet touch of something when a horse was licking my face.

I am lying on the ground somewhere in Dunland, trying to sleep next to some of the House of Vanimar, instead of my comfortable bed in Rivendell or Lórien. So how did this happen? When I first entered the house, the people I met after Lord Anglachelm were of the Order of Hammer. When the events started to go rough on them, I felt like I needed to make myself useful for them as a warrior that I am.

Tonight I sit sleepless, and look into the night about me, dark, terrible things lurk there, and often the dread comes over me, that I feel my reason is overpowered, and my senses are bewildered. Abandoned to evil spirits, we are, we who followed because duty demanded it, because we swore to serve. How can we believe that our well-doing has availed anything? All our labors have met with failure, all good for nothing. We only seem to fill up every place with our trouble and strife. Behold the works of the proud Noldor!