thoughts

The waking ice blue sky, fresh and crisp, belied Guriwen’s churning thoughts and she peered around the corner to Alairif’s cozy cabin to see no sign of life yet, this morning. Settling in the gazebo, she looked over at the pond, silently wishing Cygnus was back and wondering if she should go see him and make a trip to Minas Tirth too.

The stern hard visage of that scout, her sure and sardonic smirk filled her vision. She was like one of Celebannor’s big cats, ready to hold prey down while it delivered the killing snap to the poor creature’s neck.

I’m on watch. I haven’t done this in a long time. I don’t remember how long though. More than two years, less than five. Still a long time and feels even longer. I missed it. It’s boring, yes. But it’s also hard. Having to stay focused when you’re alone. Having to stand quiet and as still possible and watch. Even down here it’s hard. I am sitting by the edge of light, by the stairs, as I am writing this.

I am unsure why I shared so much tonight.
Normally I do far better shoving questions off.

a wave of anxiousness came over me as I finally admitted to someone other than my thoughts that those kids deserve far better than I as a sibling. For what had I shown them? Nothing but to lie, cheat, and steal their way through living and to selfishly make a way for myself alone. Being a scholar barely pays enough for my own self to live, I should have become a soldier, perhaps then I could provide more than I can now from that job alone.
But no.

"That went well enough, didn't it, Honeycake?

Heriwulf did a good job pinning down what needs to be done. I'm still not sure how the bits of metal work.  I mean, how can I know what it's worth?  I know how long it takes me fell a tree, and how much food it'll take to get the work done.  How do I know how many bits of metal I should get for that?  Maybe... maybe the metal is worth a lot because metal working is hard, and making little bits of it can be even harder.

Dear Diary,

This just seems silly. Here I am, a grown man, and I'm writing in a diary like some young, love-struck lass! I'm not even sure to whom I'm writing. It can't be to myself. I already know my own thoughts. Perhaps writing them down will allow me to revisit them some time in my future. Is that why people keep such records? To dwell on past musings?

The others fell silent as well, not sure what just happened. Anyway, Ornessar knew who The Forngarmo truly was but as he promised he was keeping it to himself. The woman stayed silent and still focused on the flames, dancing in the campfire. She got lost deep in her thoughts, not paying attention to their conversation any longer. 

Bewildered guilt, vanish you must!