I tire of battle. Not my almost daily hunts for food, no, those I understand. But true battle. With edhel and edain alike being slaughtered on a field red with the blood of both. Yes, I have seen little of such, but even the small tastes I have been given are enough for me to recoil in disgust at the mere mention. As I sit in this tree, on a hill overlooking the town before me, scroll in hand, I have realised something of that which I believe I already knew: I detest violence.
We were sitting at a table in the Prancing Pony of Bree, an inn visited by what seems to be everyone in Eriador. By we, I refer to my kinsman and kinswomen, of whose company I have recently joined. Our group consisted of Lady Avalong; the leader of the kinship, The Mirrored Blades. A fair woman, she seemed, by all standards; Amnildir, who I have grown to see as something of a friend, which I have not had the pleasure of experiencing in quite some time; and Lady Nuithali.
We had been talking about taking a potential kinswoman into our ranks when we were approached by a woman, another edhel, whose name I still have not managed to acquire. She told us that our presence, namely Lady Avalong's, was requested at a meeting in a few days. Apparently, Bree was in danger. We had to discuss a battle plan to drive the Enemy's forces back. She left, evidently to spread the word, when a few minutes later, she suddenly announced to us that there had been a change of plan. There was no time for discussion. We were to attack now.
And thus, we gathered by the West Gate, our war-party preparing themselves for the battle ahead. We advanced towards the Enemy's fortifications, making a small camp outside while the battle plan was formed. Already I was feeling that odd sensation that makes one pause for wonder. Apprehension, perhaps. Anxiety. This, I was unused to. Never before had I gathered with such a group. I have always preferred solitude before, but this, I suppose, is one of the entailments of being gwanur. Kinsman.
The battle was not short. The rest of the Blades and myself, along with a few others, charged through the centre of the encampment, while those of the Dúnedain flanked from the side and fought their way to the Enemy's leader, to cripple their morale and end the battle as the leaderless aimlessly wandered the battlefield.
I do not remember much, in truth. The rest of the happenings until the cries of victory reached my ears are a blur. I remember my bow, launching arrow after arrow into the thicket of gore ahead, as my kinsfellows and the Dúnedain slashed their way through. I remember having to resort to my blade as enemies drew closer. I remember getting clubbed across the head, leaving me dazed in the middle of war for a moment. As for the rest, nothing.
And even when our victory was proclaimed with a chorus of roars, we would be denied true celebration. A final hail of arrows tore at us. I managed to avoid them, but the previous elleth whose name I did not catch was not so lucky. She caught one directly in her shoulder and lost herself to unconsciousness immediately from the pain. Her lover, for that is all I can assume he is, shouted his displeasure and cradled her in his arms. I suggested to him that we should move her from danger and he agreed. I drew attention away from them with arrow and blade while they escaped and when they were safe, the man strode onward into the distance. He was not headed for Bree, so I assume he was travelling to a more trusted place, a place perhaps further away. I could not help but admire his courage and love for the woman, but also lament its inevitable fate.
And so, I found myself in this tree, high above the forest floor, with nothing to do but gaze at the beauty of the stars and write upon this scroll. I fear there are more battles ahead and I hope against hope that they will fare well, but as I have learned in my years, fate is not always so kind...
