Amlarad

I walk beside him through the snow by day and I lie alongside him by night. We are seperate, yet in this extremity we become one thing. One hand cares for the other, as the old saying goes.

Another day's toil is done, watching my back, and now he is sleeping. The sound of Amlarad's deep breathing is as familiar to me as my own. In this small hide-covered shelter we are as close as twins in the womb. We are entwined by air. His outbreath becomes my inbreath. We pass the shuttle of breathing between each other, weaving an intangible cloth of ourselves.

Here I, Galodin Dunedhel, write you about my adventure in Gil-Giliath after my fight with the gaunt-lord.

I felt someone touching me, I managed to open up my eyes as I saw Nimlith kneeling down at me, next to her stood a ranger, Randir. The two carried me to the camp in Gil-Giliath.

I'll sit back no more she thought as she put pen to paper, this has gone on for long enough.  I'll not sit idle and watch my kinsmen, my mentor, ride into battle without me. All those years I have spent under the guiding hand of Amlarad for what? To sit and sew, to cook?

Hill, mountain,dale or wood. I've fought in each - but a true city bred man loves good stone around him. But after so long holed up in this place, even a day or two with the big lad comes welcome. He's like bad weather - smiles one moment, then as wet and dull as a mountain in shadow. Better company than most of these northern lasses though. Which says little for him.

The Elf opened the pages of the old notebook, patched and frayed at the edges of long use. Many pages had been stitched into it, adding to it whenever more room was needed to hold the notes.
She smiled as she leafed through it. Straightening out some pages, lingering at others, she added a note here and there, or a small drawing in her own flowing letters and designs. The original writing was of a rougher hand, smudged in places and written with many different inks over the years.