A stray piece of tattered parchment drifts amidst the tents of Aragorn's Host at the border of Dagorlad. It bears no date or name, only the musings of a forlorn sprit written in a practiced Sindarin hand, strewn sparsely with Common Speech.
There isn't much to say and yet, here I sit, putting thoughts to words to paper. I feel a coldness, an emptiness as I draw nearer to the Great Eye that searches, sleepless. There is dread here that I have not felt the chill of in many long years.
Memories of simpler times are a source of respite, if a fleeting one. A handful of faces scattered across an age, the scent of salt and white flowers. Music that, if I close my eyes and listen, I can still hear -- a revenant ever haunting. Voices of Elves and Men alike, many long gone from this world.
Men. My peace with you was not an easy one, but because of that I treasure your vigor all the more. Your ferocity and insatiable lust for life inspires me, it implores me to savor the heartaches I bear. To care more for a moment, cherish those which have passed by and long for that what has yet to come. I care too much for your sentimentality, I'm told, and perhaps I do.
But my endearment of the mortal heart dims not my love and sorrow for my kin. On cold nights, my own heart still yearns for the crossing, though I confess that I can hardly remember why. Arallior? Hirathwen? To witness the lamplit quays of a Haven promised, dotting a wavecrested horizon? A time afore, I could see the lights from the cliffs of Dor-en-Ernil, dancing along the edge of my vision, just out of sight, but whenever I sought to look, they became again the stars I was so sure they weren't.
Tomorrow, I swore.
I've often found that peace is, at the best of times, forborne for tomorrow's sake. Living today to fight again is no option for us here; patience is all these fell things need to win eternity.
And so I leave with you, little paper, my woes, and keep for myself only a hope that one eve, the land will see starlight piercing through this blackened sky.
