Polil er tulë arinna ter lómini; that is, ' You can come only to the morning through the shadows.'
How is it that one is so near and yet not of the place he is? My presence has been too far gone from those I know, and even now that I am a bit readily close I feel like it is not so. I spend days cloistered in solitude, running fingers over and over the same string on my harp, and staring at nothing. My mind is much similar, a grey thing of utter stillness until some distant whisper touches the edges of it. Am I so empty that only others arouse me, now? Have I nothing left to question in myself to keep my wit entertained?
I rise, sit, sup, and stare at the wall. I do not know why I stay, again.
... yes, I do. Tis the very reason I returned. Foolish musings, circular thought. It is only that the world is old to me, though there are others of my kind even longer of age that are still hale and happy to strive to keep the good earth free of the Shadow. I have striven enough. Let the eager of heart and strong of spirit do so; I am content to sit, to watch, to listen.
To wait.
The page ends abruptly here; assuming what the writer has written is true, it is safe to assume the author simply put the quill down and resumed doing nothing.
