Diary, all manner of strange things have taken place in the last few weeks, beginning with the feast we enjoyed alongside Loth i Lonnath and some members of the Warband of Imladris.
The most unusual part of said feast was hir Daegond. I ended up seated by his side, and braced for a great many sneering comments -- even ones that sound lewd, but that I do not fully understand, about my impending marriage -- but instead he was... Diary, hir Daegond was polite. He absolutely insisted on loading my plate for me, in fact. We have never really discussed food, except when he wants to eat the flowers in my hair, so the Sergeant had no way of knowing that I do not usually partake in the flesh of beasts. But as he loaded my plate with an almost impossible amount of flank steak from the boar he himself had killed, he seemed... and again, Diary, you must forgive me, because this will sound like a strange descriptor for a Sergeant of the Hammer, but he looked almost innocent, like a proud young ellon showing off the first rabbit he has shot. (Or that Dùnadan boy who used to live in the Valley with his mother. I recall him splinting the leg of his puppy, when it took a tumble downhill. He was so proud!) So I smiled, and thanked hir Daegond, and partook of the flesh. It even stayed down. I could not help but feel afterward that Lilleduil was chastising me for eating Daegond's boar, saying that she herself as a healer could never stomach the flesh of any thing that might be a friend (clearly, Diary, she has never befriended fish, and it is possible if one has patience and treats), but she does not belong to a House where Daegond far outranks her. I, however, most certainly do, though he is not in my direct line of command. More, he is Themodir's friend. At times he has been a strange friend, but O Elbereth, that Hound is loyal.
But the odd dreams started about then. And this past week, at the Hall of Fire, an ellon I did not know announced himself by saying a riddle. I did not like it, nor the other ones he recited, although he had a wee song about light and bringing friends together that was rather more to my liking. The riddles spoke of "three lights" -- that is easy, Diary, for I deem they must be the Silmarils -- and "fifteen shields and five swords." This I liked very little, for it reminded me of the slaying of my parents, the sack of the city where I grew up, the sudden end of my childhood. After all, how many sons had that accursed Fëanor? Five, was it not?
And the same evening, my soldier deployed yet one more time. After he had gone -- and he seemed to me more than usually emotionally affected by having to go to the Misty Mountains, but he still suffers memories of his captivity in Angmar last year, and both regions are terribly rocky and desolate -- I was unnerved enough to take counsel with young Talthas, who had luckily remained. I told him the story of how, by the providence of Ulmo, my second-cousin Ayandil and I made our desperate voyage, and how when I awoke from my first sleep on these new shores, Ayandil was gone. Tracks, a broken twig or blade of grass here and there as if he had gone in search of more food -- for our makeshift pack, which was still beside me, contained the last of our lembas and our final skin of drinking water, and naught else that would sustain us. But no blood, or anything suggestive of combat.
Talthas is a bright lad, I have to say. I told him of the calm ease with which Ayandil flipped over our raft and rested it on its clumsy but effective rudder to make a lean-to, which he was able to disguise a bit with some seaweed and bits of driftwood before he, too, was forced by exhaustion to lie down. We agreed that quick thinking and survival skills boded well, but the lack of any sign of him boded ill. Of course, we may have gone in different directions entirely. Although Ayandil was a clever lad on the cusp of true manhood, we did not know at all where we were.
But simply talking to young Talthas proved helpful, and he even offered me herbs from personal gardens he keeps around the Valley! This was terribly helpful, Diary, as I had entered the Hall that night feeling sore from being the only healer left to watch the new batch of celebrant cuttings. May this awful mountain campaign finish quickly, so Norliriel and the others can come back to the Houses! Some were even ready to plant. And even with the tiny perforated clay pots, it was scoop the soil, bury the fish scale in it, set the start gently so its developing roots grow well, surround that with more soil, repeat, repeat, repeat. And then they must be lightly watered one more time, to make sure that the pot works properly and the water flows cleanly through the soil to dribble just a tiny bit into each saucer.
I wish, Diary, that such repetitive tasks were enough to quell how strange I feel about that warrior and his blasted riddles. It would have been an easier parting from Themodir, had not my mind been filled with talk of shields and swords, the iron fate he faces yet again... and after this, there will be more war. More aggressive, for our part at least, until the Shadow is eradicated -- for the great beast, once one of the Valar, was cast into void, but servants of his yet live. The riddle-warrior had, he said, just come from slaying a descendant of Ungoliant. If there is hope for restoring the Woodland Realm, it must come soon, and not only from a strike force of Malledhrim. I hear nothing of Thranduil, son of Oropher.
That king's name came up, Diary, I forgot to mention. An elleth was in the hall that same evening whose parents, residents of the Valley, had set out for the Woodland Realm and now not been heard from in... I forget. Much longer than it ought to take to arrive there and send a raven from the river's opposite shore. Of course the place is at war, and such may be in short supply. But what place is not at war, Diary? Perhaps the land of the Periannath? One hopes Falathlorn is far enough west to remain quiet. At any rate, the others in the hall -- the riddle-warrior I mentioned; young Talthas; a lore-seeker who had come to the Valley to use the Library; and I -- tried to think of a possible fate for her parents that would cause them to be delayed, but alive. And we spoke of Thranduil and his famed suspicion -- better stumbling into his dungeons than a spider or enemy arrow, no? (Through strange circumstances, I met the midwife-healer who delivered his son, and she says he even imprisoned a gaggle of lost Dwarves once. I must see if these are the same that Mister Baggins often speaks of. I like Mister Baggins's riddles much better than these new ones.)
