At last I leave Lothlorien, my home for many years. For how could I stay?
Not that I was ill-prepared, of course. I read dozens of lore-books, perused all of the maps. I was even taught the basics of hand-to-hand fighting, just in case. It was a very proper send-off. And I wore my finest traveling cloak, of course. I received an escort to the edge of the Golden Wood, then turned south. I will not attempt to go through the Misty Mountains, from what I have read, the Gap of Rohan seems safer. I will try to hitch a ride with a trading group when I get there. These are dangerous times, after all.
I thought I would miss my home the moment I left it, but so far, all seems well. Perhaps I haven't had enough time to miss it. But I have my music, which is the only thing I feel like I really need. I really should be fine.
And this, of course. I never kept a journal in Lothlorien, my thoughts were well-ordered there. But out in the world, it is not so. This simple book will be a place to record thoughts and happenings, songs and poems. Perhaps it will be of some use to later scholars.
It's odd, really. Being someone in Lothlorien means nothing to the outside world. I've already avoided nearly half a dozen wild boars. But I feel none of the doom of my kindred - I never have, really.
