Chronicled in Laerodhris of Falathlorn in Eriador,
On this the 16th day of Rhîw in the Year 3018 of the Third Age.
Now Bree lies nigh one hundred leagues from the elven haven of Duillond, a journey of two enquier on foot. And so to hasten my return to Ered Luin, I hired an amiable horse from the Bree stables who carried me swiftly from Bree to Hobbiton, and then on to Needlehole in the Shire. There did I meet again with my Hadhod friends whom I befriended on my first visit to that settlement.
Alas, travel through the lands that were once the proud Dúnedain realm of Arthedain has now become perilous, and so it was agreed that I should join a company of Hadhodrim who were returning home to the great halls of Thorin's Gate. And so did we set out on a day that was cold but without snow, and not three days hence were we accosted by foul servants of the Dark Lord.
Brief but fierce was the fight, and my companions with fury and merciless affray did slay our assailants and left none alive. However, I - who heretofore has never been in an instance of violence let alone bloody battle - was of little aid to those doughty dwarves. For angol is not a martial art, but one of healing and balance; and though it may be deadly, it is neither swift as blade nor arrow. And although I am skilled with my staff of wood, little did it avail against the cold iron weapons of our enemy.
And so did Gróin, leader of our company of travellers, describe to me the need for weapons well-forged and sharp of blade to stem the black tide of hate that issues forth against the Free People of Ennor. And so it is that I, who has held naught but peace in my heart for all my youth in Mithlond, now turn my thought to weaponry and death: a glaive perhaps, like the famed Aeglos of Ereinion Gil-galad, for much like a staff it seems to me.
'Nay,' said Gróin, 'it is not so, but to the mind of a child untrained in war.'
And he spake of those who wield a staff one-handed in battle, but who carry a blade in the other: long and light and keen-edged. A sword is what I need, he says, but one forged by no hand other than my own! For, says he, within a sword dwells the heart of he who makes it, and thus it will not love the hand it serves, but only its maker.
Now in Mithlond oft had my father sent me to spend time with the smiths of the Haven, and I have learned the foundations of that craft, but I know not the Deep Lore of metal-work and weapon-craft so as to forge my own sword. For my comfort, Gróin spoke also of a smith in Celondim who was before of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain ere Eregion was laid waste by the malice of Sauron. Curubrannon he is named, and he feigns to be but the Master of the Crafting Guilds, but ever does he linger nigh the forge of Celondim.
Then, as a sign that comes from Menel, on the third day after our assault did a star fall blazing from the heavens and struck the earth with flaming splendour and great thunder and clouds of smoke nigh our wakeful camp. And lo! Within the smouldering hollow lay a red-glowing stone of hot iron, and when it was cooled by the winter air, Gróin bade me recover it and carry it hence to Celondim for the Master's pleasure. For from its smelting, he forbode, shall I forge my blade and yet will there remain shards enough to please Curubrannon.
And so I recall my oath sworn before Oromë that I should avenge my father's murder at the fell hands of the Yrch upon the road from Imladris, and my heart is hardened. So shall I learn the art of war at the knee of Curubrannon as I learned the art of peace at that of my father.
Nínion an gwannad lîn, Adar, savo hîdh nen gurth.
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