This is not the grand alliance I envisioned when I rode from the gates of Dol Amroth. I came seeking the strength of our northern kin, hoping to find an army to bring back to the coast. Instead, I find a scattered people fighting ghosts in the ruins.
I travel, for now, with two Rangers of Esteldin. They are my kin by blood, yet our worlds could not be more different. Enniliel has a good heart, but her naïveté in these dark woods sets my teeth on edge. I find myself constantly watching the shadows for her, stepping between her and danger despite my own urgent mission. And Idhrandir... his courage is admirable, but his errands feel so desperately small against the tide of this war.
Then there is the older one. Edhellaer. He speaks endlessly of duty and shame, lecturing us as if we are untried recruits who do not know the weight of the encroaching dark. He possesses the same rigid, exhausting mindset as my father's First Lieutenant, clinging to authority and empty words when survival requires silent action. I hold my tongue and let him talk, finding it easier to simply do the work while he lectures. But my patience wears thin.
We march deeper into the Trollshaws tomorrow. I will follow them a while longer, but my hope of finding aid for Gondor wanes with every league. The North is fighting its own desperate war. They have no strength to spare.
If this is all that remains of the Dúnedain here, then I am wasting my time. Dol Amroth’s salvation will not come from these woods.
