I stand upon a hill, overlooking the river Lhûn. Down below, within its swirling waters, a number of ships carrying the banners of Loth-i-Lonnath waving in the wind, lies anchored at the docks of Thamas Lorn; and like great white swans they ride the streams, only awaiting the moment to spread their wings and take flight towards the north. For that is where the herth is going, to meet dangers unknown, but this time, I'm not going with them. This all started with a mysterious map that Hallothel had found, and its discovery had quickly turned into a right-on skirmish against the orcs that roam the vast plains of the area known as the Lone-lands and beyond. I had joined them there, but not as a Warden, for my duties would be elsewhere these days. Some time ago - it feels like years, though I doubt it has truly been that long - I laid down my sword and shield, for no reason other than the fact that it was not my call any longer. A warrior, warden, guardian and more I've been all my life, but it was not until I no longer carried the sword that I realized one thing. It wasn't my one true place. Or perhaps it had been, at some point in time, but time flows like a river; and as all the tiniest streams finds their way across a valley of stone, changing direction as they move through a layer of stones, around a large boulder and then running down a great hill, everything changes. The pace, the course, and the very dimensions themselves will change. Perhaps the purpose remains the same wherever the great river of time ends, but the end is still nowhere in sight upon the red horizon, and nor do I believe that I will see it any time soon.
My own river of time had carried me through countless years, across streaming tides and calm waters alike, through icy storms and the warmth of a rising sun. And some time ago, the river of time wished for another direction, another change. I myself wished for a change. From having carried a sword or spear for countless years, there was now nothing more vile to me than the feeling of a cold, dead thing of metal in my hand, no matter how much I loved the sword in question. I had always perceived my sword - which was called Gearalagos and made exclusively for me by the smiths of Mithlond before the Great War, on the request of my father - as if it was alive, as if it would talk to me after a long battle, singing a battle hymn over all the enemies that lay dead by its bloody tip. I had held the sword in my hand one last time in Imladris, which now feels like an eternity ago, although it would not have been much more then a year at most. There, by the great waterfall, I had sheathed it one last time, and then wrapped it away neatly with my other belongings, in hope to never have to use it again. The day after, I asked to speak privately with Hirgonui Curugirion, of my request to be relieved of active warden duty. I could not tell if he was disappointed or not in my decision, for Hirgonui is ever so professional in his ways, as well as understanding. It was decided then that my request was granted, and I could take up any duty I wished.
And so a new course had taken its place, and I soon found myself tending to the gardens of Thamas Lorn, slowly cataloguing the disarrayed mess of a wine cellar and helping the staff with various concerns around the Hall. This was a time to do so many things I had rarely - or never - done before, things I'd often wanted to do and some things I never thought I'd actually enjoy. I joined the scribe Faewenil in the library of Thamas Lorn, and together with her I often felt like a child again, as we jested and friendly bickered with each other. We spent hours in the dusty library to catalogue old books and documents, and every once in a while one of us would give the other a scare, throwing wet pieces of paper and messing with each others hair like fighting siblings, and so young and so carefree I had not felt since my childhood in Mithlond, together with my dear departed brother. As the winter came, and the annual Vanimar Ball with it, I asked my dear friend Lothoniel to attend the ball with me, as Turuviel was - as so often before, in her line of duty - called away on secret missions. It was a lovely evening indeed; we danced and drank wine and then we danced some more, holding each other's hands and dancing in circles yet again, and we laughed and met beloved friends and ate great food; and I secretly watched how the servants around the Hall so quietly and invisibly replaced empty flasks and plates, whenever a table had been picked clean. It was an inspiration, to an extent, how important they were when looking at the greater picture of things and not just what's in front of you, and yet these people are so rarely celebrated for their hard work.
I myself found a strange peace in serving others later on, watching them enjoy what little meals and treats I offered after a long patrol. To see the dimmed lights of a tired warden's eyes once again light up like wildfire, as a simple hot meal and a cold, sweet drink renewed the warden's resolve and spirit. This was indeed what I had wished for, and desired - no longer would I need to stare into the cold and hateful eyes of enraged beasts as they fall by my blade, but instead enjoy the sight of a tired spirit renewed, rekindled, reborn. And there started my quest for yet another purpose, for I had searched many other paths in the past as well, and found many that suited me - but the river of time changes all, and yourself with it, and perhaps I was just an ever changing current in a great valley of streams and rivers; always seeking change, always searching for serenity, always looking for a new way forward. Later I accompanied the Herth towards the Lone-Lands as they first set out to meet their foe and survey the area this mysterious map pointed to, and I did so as a humble quartermaster who held no blade save for a working knife, yet no less important than any other. For it is the quartermaster who oversees the cooking of invigorating food and drink, supplies the tired troops with whatever they need for the skirmish or after it, be it a warm blanket to cover yourself with beneath the stars, a simple field ration to eat when there's no other food to be had, or just a few kind words after a demanding battle. As a quartermaster, I had it all at my disposal - and it was a true joy to see how much it affected the people around me. I helped the field staff make food for the returning wardens; I helped the healers to gather herbs and ingredients for their salves and bandages, as well as taking care of minor wounds the wardens suffered in the battle; and I gave my beloved friend Alfiriel - one whom I have always cared very much about, yet I could never tell her just how much - a special treat that I composed from sweet chocolates, berries and a dried, red rose for adornment, in a feeble hope to lift her already soaring, beautiful spirit even higher when the nights were at their darkest and coldest.
I was now one of the silent minority, one who serves from the shadows, and I had never felt more important in my life.
