Rangers

Third Age 2998, The Sunken City of Annúminas

I'll sit back no more she thought as she put pen to paper, this has gone on for long enough.  I'll not sit idle and watch my kinsmen, my mentor, ride into battle without me. All those years I have spent under the guiding hand of Amlarad for what? To sit and sew, to cook?

Suilad, Hir Halbarad.

I apologize in delay before sending the first report. The  Eldar host has arrived at Lin Giliath in good order, though it is certain that the Enemy already knows of their coming. Impressive a sight though their waving banners and loud horn-calls might be; it can have done nothing but alert our enemies to their presence.

 Vend set the ale mug down and looked right in the bartender's eyes with a fixed expression of emptyness.

"I don't think you understand me, Seamus. The man's already dead, he's living on borrowed time. You don't stop Mormenar. At best, you delay him. But not forever."

There is an old saying - a story has no true beginning, no ultimate end. Stories are rivers, we tumble into them for a time, then drag ourselves onto the bank. We may be angry, or suprised, or shake off the water like a happy dog. But the story-river does not care, it runs its own course, stronger than anything or anyone cast into it. I am in the river - and I am drowning. Celebhir, born of the sea-elves, washed ever on towards the mouth of the river, to be lost in the sea.

The world is a game - and how I love it. My fingers pick up and place each pawn. See the elven maid Celebhir wither in the high tower, the Rook's emprisoning rookery. This northern Woman, a Queen in my hand. The second stone discovered - my Dunlander's quest - like a Knight in a tale.

My Poppinjay clicks his piece down upon the board, pulling me from my distraction. He smiles, a slow lazy pleasure. He knows I will not chide a man for using his intelligence. The word slips from his lips, his eyes dance with the rare moment -

'Check'

Her imagination roams a tired circle, a hobbled northern nag. She is satisfied by the crumbled walls of the dry field she plods through. She seems to take delight in the fading of Arnor, in the slow withering of her people. Give her an open gate, and like a dim-witted child she will shut it fast again, prefering the small compass of the known to the vast and glorious world beyond.

 Earth beneath my feet is wet and mushy. My boots sink slightly in it, leaving a barely visible track among the yellow grass. I don´t mind that, since there won´t be a trace left for anyone to follow, unless they happen to be those shiny folk Azrudaur speaks of with such loathing. No...he is lord Azrudaur... I ought to remember to give him that respect. After all, he had earned it.

Let it be remembered - I gave her a choice.

I place my pen down, push the stopper back into the blue-black ink bottle, lean back into my chair. The lad quietly takes away my papers, placing them neatly to one side. He gathers them reverently now, as though anything I touch is imbued with some vital essence.

No time to think of what I have sown there. It is done.

But what is sown now?

The young man lies limp in my arms. His head rests on my broad chest as trusting as a maid, rising and falling with the ebb and flow of my breath. He smells as sweet as a girl, for all his twenty years. The low light from the dim brazier picks out the curl of his eyelashes, as the herb mixture pushes him deeper into sleep.

My right hand lies loose over the back of his bruised neck. My left limp over the curve at the base of his spine. I am mindful of the weals of the injuries striping him.

I am not a brute.