Belegos

Elloen rode out of the Valley a day ago, and he had arrived to Eregion. He looked at the ruins, and thoughts of home came into his mind: "Home. What home? I have lived in Imladris since..." and suddenly he felt smaller - he had returned to his childhood. Suddenly he felt himself as the same adolescent child that he had once been when Eregion was assaulted.

The silver-toothed comb passed smoothly through his thick dark hair, with only the faintest of rasping sounds; the usually coarse mane that he bore smoothed almost to silk. He had been combing it slowly for the past hour, the repetitive motion calming his mind and allowing the anger and frustration to flow out of him. As his thoughts became clearer, he began to think of the progress that they had made so far. They had left the valley of Imladris far behind and had journeyed south, across the High Moor and through passes that he did not know.

I do not know how to begin this, as I do not know who will read it. At times I have seen others writing their own thoughts in such a way, and perhaps it is only now that I see the value of such a record. For even though I have no great wisdom to pass to those who come after me, I would still have them know of me. Maybe writing this down will grant me a little peace before the darkness overtakes us all, and the world ends in ruin. But how to start, that still eludes me. What would any wish to know of me?

“Sit down!” Rainith told Parnard. “If you keep hopping up and down, you will be worn out before we reach our destination.”

In a few days I shall mount my horse and depart for the Greenwood with the Lady Danel, Rainith, and Belegos; and being anxious to write a few lines before my departure in order that my lord be acquainted with the exact state of affairs, I beg l

I went to the Hall of Fire and sat, and drank a bottle or two of wine. Sogadan told me how Lord Belegos is angry with his friend Estarfin. I said I was not surprised in the least; I had just come from that fell warrior’s home and his face was smeared with blood. It seems he spares no one in his wrath, not even himself.

It had begun as a day full of such promise. A snatched meeting, a kiss stolen under the gaze of the rising sun. She had never felt so beautiful as on that quiet morning, when Aranto had laughed at the flowers woven into her hair, and then claimed one for himself, pinned inside his tunic. He had grumbled again about their secrecy, and they had finally accepted the inevitable: he would tell his friends, his brothers, after the feast, and then they would go to Maltariel's parents and tell them.

Continued from: A Letter to the Lords Anglachelm and Veryacano; An Errand Unto Thee; A Hard Lesson; Unexpected Aid; The Shifting Paths; A Display of Character

In a wide room arrayed with all manner of decorations,