(A small leather bound journal of a reddish brown, some pages previously having been torn from it, as well as the first pages filled with some notes about plants, some unfinished poems, and a list apparently written for a shopping trip to the market. The following lines, the first of what appears to have turned into a diary.)
So here I sit now, alone, in this small hut, which has been my home for all these many years. It is hard for me to imagine that I am about to leave behind all that I have known, but my decision is final. Now that father is gone, it seems of little use for me to remain. Yes, I could continue to tend to those here in the area, who have trusted in father and treated him kindly, but I know my heart will grow too sad and too lonely, and now that I know I might still have family elsewhere, I shall set out to try and unravel the mystery of my ancestors.
Poor father. I am not cross with him over his silence for all these years. It is clear to me, the reason why he did not hand me the pendent and the letter, was due to him trying to spare me pain, for never would I have left him while he still lived. Yet regardless, my heart would have turned to wondering and longing, and I would have ended eaten within. Far better I did not know, but now that I do, I shall act upon it.
Today for the last time I went to the marshes. My heart bled, remembering my childhood days, following father, watching him bend down to pull this plant or that plant from the swamp. I was such an eager student, and he would smile and praise me. The midges were biting in force, but I found the herb, father used to rub on us, and as always, this made it bearable. Father's knowledge continues to live on through me, which is a small comfort, but I shall miss him so deeply, as will I miss the marshes and this hut and the forest. Alvin and Labhraim shall come with me. Neither could survive alone, nor would they wish to, and their familiar company will grant me warmth on those days ahead, when surely I will feel sad and despairing. Motte of course is coming too. I still see him before me, when they brought him to us, his legs swollen, the pain ever so obvious. He was such a sorry sight of a horse, but his feet have all healed, thanks to father's medicine, although father always insisted it was I who truly healed Motte. He said I had a way with horses that was in my blood, and I am glad father allowed me to keep him, even though it was hard at times during the winter to feed him through. Now he shall carry me onward, an adventure he surely never has dreamed of, nor I for that matter.
Tomorrow I shall make my way to Bree, to find if I can travel alongside a merchant's caravan, dearly hoping I will find one to join. The journey alone seems far too daunting in its dangers. I also still have a few things to sell, extra coin certainly will come in handy.
My last night in our hut. I wonder if I shall dream, and if it will be a dream of the future. Do I really still have family out there? And if so, who are they, and why did mother end so far from them? Who was my real father, and will his or mother's family even wish to know me?
So many question, and I can only hope that traveling to Gondor will not prove a folly, with no answers, but only hardship ahead.
