[At last this log is written in again, in that firm, upright, and elegant hand.]
Entry the eighth.
I may have mentioned that in the evenings when I was not searching for Miss Rue, I was visiting a patient. I have tried not to say much about this patient and my attempts at treatment, for I am only allowed those attempts under terms of secrecy, and I fear that when I speak of things aloud my tongue tends to run away with me, to my shame. But on paper I may write carefully of only what I am allowed to tell.
There are actually two for whom I have been caring. The first was suffering from loss of appetite and weight, for which I applied the treatment recommended by Master Maddoct: tempting the patient with a favorite food, then simply asking the cause with an open heart. In this patient's case, this — followed by gentle listening, kindness, and understanding — was sufficient to set them on their feet and guide them back to the path of wellness. Of course, this ailment has a tendency to recur, so I and all the people around them must be vigilant for future stumbles.
But this patient suffers an additional ailment, one that they share with another that I know. It is an ailment of the mind, which means that both bear it in secret and with shame. I am reluctant to write much out of respect for their wishes for privacy, wishes I well understand; the slightest whisper of “madness” can ruin a reputation and doom one to ever be handled with mistrust and condescension.
This, however, is to me an injustice, and I think it born of ignorance. So many of us, warriors or otherwise, are so afraid to give the appearance of weakness that we style ourselves unaffected by wounds, sometimes the physical but especially the spiritual — but none of us are truly made of stone, not even Dwarves. We are all ensouled beings, sensible of the world and of pleasure and suffering, and in times of darkness, violence, tragedy, and horror, those who survive cannot help but be marked by them.
I told you once that my grandfather and my father fought at the Battle of Dimrill Dale, and that there my father lost his legs and my grandfather was burned, as was half the Dwarvish host. Though I was born a century and a half after that black day, I still had the honor of knowing some great and storied warriors among my father's surviving friends. And by this honor and my subsequent experiences, I have come to suspect that the sort of mark my two patients bear on their souls is especially common, particularly among survivors of harsh fighting. And yet veterans who will boast of the scars on their bodies and show them off to strangers will conceal with great shame such scars on their souls, fearing that if they become known, others will think them cowardly and soft, spoiled for further glory, broken and useless.
I do not agree. I do not think a scar on the soul is a sign of a failure or a coward. To me it is a sign of one who has bravely struggled and endured, one who has borne the unbearable and survived. If we honor those who are wounded in body, we ought to give even more honor to those who are wounded in spirit, and tend them, too, to stop the bleeding and the pain. But the shameful silence endures, and so our healers cannot learn the proper treatment while at the same time the afflicted one suffers in loneliness, wondering if he is broken or mad and never realizing the axe-brother on his left is experiencing the very same thing as he.
It is to learn the proper treatment, or at least to be guided on the first steps towards understanding the nature of what they call fëa and its relationship to the mind and the mind's wounds, that I desire to visit Rivendell.
True understanding, of course, would most like have to be a life's masterwork, if not that of several generations. I must return to the Lonely Mountain in less than a year, and so if I intend also to return to Bree-land and then to visit the Blue Mountains, I will have only a very short time among the Elves, not enough to accomplish great learning. What I realistically hope instead is to make a few contacts with whom I may communicate over the coming decades and perhaps to be guided on the very first steps of a philosophically sound understanding. I believe there is nowhere better in Middle-Earth to begin that journey than at the feet of the students of Master Elrond, so I would be remiss not to take the opportunity while I am on this side of the Misty Mountains.
I cannot say for certain that this is my one calling, something I will make my most important craft, nor even that healing generally will be. But still I believe that learning is worth the effort, as just as I am sure that during my remaining two centuries I will meet those who need barbering, I am sure it can only be useful and good to develop my understanding and bring such knowledge to Erebor.
And these two particular patients — they at least, if no others, I would help heal.
