How can I question? So, here, among the white stones of the ancient watch of Gwingris, enclosed by the bones of the very last fortress in all of Eregion, the last to submit to the black orcs of Sauron - here, my noble commander, sets a special detail... on a case of sausages.
But it is a new morning and the generous light of a different age shines down on our band of warriors. And though the trees here remain just as resilient and prickly as ever, not all of us remember that our paces carry us over open graves. So I don't question, and plod on in its generous gold-flecked shadow.
And anyway, I find those coveted sausages and their guard amusing - especially as we are surrounded (closer than any enemy of Angmar) by the abundant crop of stings: haws, sloes, raspberries, blackberries, even honey! - not to mention the eggs of wild fowl, and and the odd invaders from the Shire, those chubby taters. Sausages or not, no one will starve here. Not in Eregion.
I made sure of that long ago. My kin asked for trees of me and my own: trees for the boundaries of the roads and green boggy fields, trees to keep foxes and thieves out. They desired trees as ever-green as emeralds, bright with fruit like rubies, with hearts as wan as quartz, and arrayed with their own tiny spears - noble trees. So I planted holly. I dug pits and courses for them so they might become a living pale, a defense for Ost-in-Edhil. I served them as I served my kinsmen before and now, with the toil of years.
Now, Holly: it makes good charcoal, but it feeds only the blackbirds and urchins. Those glowing berries are poison. So I planted my own provisions in secret. Now they are free to bloom openly! But why such solemn vigil reserved for bits of spiced venison strung in casing! Not when we neglect to remember that we head down the shadow of the old North Way blindly, strait into the ruined walls of the house of Morlas - ruins filled with enemy spies.
Ah, Morlas, the Raven-Haired! If only that high-born Gwaith-i-Mirdain, that proud forger of gems - if only he knew now that his exalted fountains (that once fed his forges) are being used as latrines by the bastard sons of orcs. If only he knew that his precious idea - held closer to his breast than any amulet of sapphire - that this patch of brambles could ever exalt itself to the unsullied heights of Valinor - that this lofty dream would be used by the Enemy to tear down his walls and break the very house of his soul!
Morlas should have turned back from the gates of that lie - just as we now turn away from the shadow of his lost habitation (on this frousy afternoon in early spring, with the taste of sage and grease still clinging to our lips). He should have forsaken the poisoned gifts of that false Annatar, just as we forsake battle with these coarse ruffians today - for greater battles! But who was I to question? I tried to plant good here, but the seeds of strife were sewn long before my days.
So, these young shields and their concern for this old lady (as I gather my wild crop a little too far from the fire) how can I question it? How can I speak of the Days of Flight without exhuming our bitter inheritance as Noldor, or taint the beauty of this blustery day with the poison of past betrayals?
How can I raise my voice to say how wonderous and strange it is to see a dwarf offer his assistance to defeat a common foe? Have my noble lords forgotten how gates of Hadhodrond were once open to us, freely, in their resentments, and how, here is one offering to mingle his blood with our own in battle. What beautiful new growth! But the sausages had to be eaten, and his unusual presence was ignored in their favour, and all I can do is offer him taters. How can I question?
