Chronicled in Michel Delving of i Drann in Eriador,
On this the 42nd day of Firith in the Year 3018 of the Third Age.
This morn, at Mistress Goodbody's sumptuous 'first breakfast', I asked if I might respectfully forgo her promise yestereve of a day of learning Hobbit-lore, and instead spend today exploring Michel Delving. To this she reluctantly agreed (alas, I expect she looked forward to instructing a new-found student!)
However, I am forever grateful to her for this opportunity to tarry here in Michel Delving whilst on my journey to Bree. For though I have not forgotten my quest to visit the Scholar's Hall, this sojourn in the serene beauty of the Westfarthing has provided me with some much needed time for reflection. For this is the first time that I have roamed far beyond the borders of the elven havens, and I have now come to realise what a sheltered existence I have led ere now. For too long have I had only the company of my kin, the Edhil, living far removed from the diverse world that Ennor is proving to be. Lingering here amongst the merry, laughing Shire-folk has reminded me that, not very long ago, I too lived a life of careless joy; an everyday happiness of pure existence: the life of a hên.
It is oft said that the time of the Elves is ending, but my time has only just begun! I yearn not for the timeless refuge of Valinor surrounded by my kin, for I am yet unaged. Not for naught did the Elves in Duillond give me the epesse 'i Nethon', the Young One, for I am yet blessed with the exultation of fëa and the mischievous inquisitiveness of youth... or so I was in Mithlond ere Adar was slain.
I have lost my bliss.
For in reading my chronicles in retrospect, the words that I have scribed upon these pages oft seem as dry as the parchment upon which they are written; nothing more than the scribblings of a naive child writing only to earn the approval of his teacher. And thus I ask myself for whom, in truth, do I compose this account of my journey in knowledge, for these chronicles will not live on timeless in lore as do the writings of loremasters like Pengolodh or Ælfwine of old. Perhaps it is only for myself that I write these words after all, for this was meant to be a private record of my path, but it would be gratifying to know that my words shall linger on for posterity, even after the fading of my kin.
But now here in the tranquil shelter of the Shire, as I wander through the lamplit gardens of Michel Delving beneath the radiant stars, oft it is difficult to recall the ever-growing Shadow in the south that draws Ennon closer into war each day that passes; even the anguish of Adar's death, Naneth's grief thereof and her subsequent departure to Aman no longer cuts deep into my heart and is healing slowly into memory. Ever does my departing the Grey Havens and passing into Duillond seem but a fading dream.
However, I have great concern regarding my pursuit of knowledge, for this it is that drives me ever onwards; and the cause of my unease is the bond between knowledge and corruption. For it is well-known that in Valinor, in their desire for knowledge, the Noldor were deceived by Melkor, which led to their doom; and it is also known to scholars of ancient lore, that the Dark Lord Sauron (in his guise of Annatar) befriended Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain and ensnared them through their eagerness for knowledge. It seems, therefore, that seeking knowledge is fraught with peril, which I must surely guard against, if I can.
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