Entry the seventh — though a paltry one, for I only wish to quickly communicate my concerns about the treatment of Miss Rue.
I understand well your inclination to assume that Rue's troubles are all in the mind, horrors and fantasies planted by some Woman who addled her with herbs to compel her service. And I shall not contest the fact that Rue is disturbed, at times irrational, and is frequently antisocial in behavior.
However, I am concerned that in your our eagerness to consider her ills as symptoms of a disturbed mind, we do her a disservice. I do not think it right to blithely reassure her that none of her stories could have happened, that magic is all conjurers' tricks and her memories all distorted fancies. For there are blades that drink blood, and there are birds who spy from the treetops for far-off masters. Perhaps the ones in Rue's visions were imagined; yet there are real ones in the world.
Unfortunately, I am not learned enough to be able to recount much of them for you here. Of blood-drinking blades, I dimly remember tales of the Elder Days, when a Dark Elf learned the secrets of sublime swordcraft from the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost. It was said he forged a black sword of peerless sharpness and a fell hunger for blood; I think it went to Doriath and ended up in the hands of a Man who met a tragic end, but I shall not attempt to pen more of the tale as I remember it very poorly, and the details of such a legend are only of slight interest to us — for I very much doubt that Miss Rue could have wielded a true blood-drinking dagger, as it is not the sort of thing I can picture some mortal Woman of the Third Age running around with in her pocket. Yet there could be something there, some slim possibility, and so to call it impossible feels too close to dishonesty for me.
Of birds who watch and listen, I know a good bit more, as I spoke to one only last week. We at Erebor are good friends with the ravens of Ravenhill and pay them for their service delivering news and messages. Likewise are the thrushes of Esgaroth good friends with the Men of that region, and I think their friendship has been cultivated by the Dwarves of Ered Luin as well. But these birds are good and honorable, and I would not think they would stoop to working for a cruel sorceress such as Miss Rue described — if her memories of birds are real, then I would suspect some other kind of which I do not know, or else that Rue's tormentor has enough wealth to command enormous bribes.
Of enchanted quills, I know nothing. Yet I feel this: as likely as it is that Rue's nightmares are distortions implanted by this evil Woman, and as unlikely as it is that this Woman wields any true magic — magic is certainly real, and to tell Rue unequivocally that it is not, and that all of her sufferings are fantastical, is insufficiently circumspect for my taste.
When I am not needed to sit by Rue's bedside, I will seek out more information. The Elf who disappointed me implied she knows more of this, so perhaps this time she can be persuaded to share a little bit of it with me, and I know at least a few who are learned in obscure lore. I hope I uncover nothing to reinforce my fears, for it would make Miss Rue's treatment much easier if her troubles are all imagined, not real.
But I fear it may not be so easy.
