I write now from beneath the shadow of a cockeyed boulder, sheltered on all sides by a heavy amount of trees. My friend and traveling companion seems able to find the most hospitable camping spots, no matter how far into the wilds we go. I believe that Gamferth and I left Bree none too soon, as the air has a bite to it now, and the beautiful, colored leaves have mostly fallen, and the land around us grows grey and brown with winter's approach. Not quite so harsh as winter in Bree-land, but traveling in the open under an icy rainfall is not very enjoyable, either! Alas, we manage to build a hearty fire between the pair of us, and his shoulder has made a warm and comforting pillow once or twice, when I found myself unable to shake off the night chill.
It feels as though I've been walking and riding forever. Logically, of course, I know it wasn't all that long ago that I was back in Bree, but it seems like a dream anymore. I wonder if, years down the road, my time there will feel like another life, lived by another person. Will I ever go back there?
It is curious how, the more time you spend with a soul, the more you begin to see them for the flawed, imperfect, and endearing being that they are. I thought Gamferth was an invincible and fearless warrior. Perhaps that is just my tendency to see people as the best versions of themselves; my own lingering naivety of youth. So tall and striking in his armor, sitting astride Sigefaest, smiling and reassuring. After the skirmish with the orcs, he was shaken and worried, and I could feel him brooding quietly. He seemed to grow more confident again when we were surrounded by the Wildmen of Dunland, and after we escaped with our lives (thank Béma) he has been more focused, more intent, more purposeful. He shared with me his guilt over the wound I suffered, that he fears age and time are against him, that it was partly his fault that I was hurt. I know this is not the truth, of course. One man cannot keep a sword pointed at four orcs at the same time. But his keen desire to protect and to be reliable and stalwart, it touches me deeply. Perhaps he is older than most of our fighting kinsmen. Perhaps age has touched his bones and reflexes. This does not diminish his goodness or his worth in my eyes.
The injury is doing well, and should heal soon. I inspect it daily, but it requires little care, other than to keep it clean and dressed. I can't think of a more unnerving treatment than having a small swarm of bees crawling across one's bare flesh, but I trusted Baldmar implicitly, and always will. We have not seen him since parting ways several days ago, and I pray he is safe. I find it a great comfort to think of him nearby, even hidden from sight.
Speaking of unseen allies, we have not seen hair nor hide of Aeruthuil since we were in the north of Enedwaith. Is he still trailing us? Perhaps he felt his duty was finished once we were far enough south, and he has gone back to Bree-land? I feel a prick of sadness at the thought that I will not see him again.
Thoughts of my old friend spur me to mention that, when the Dunlendings stole all of our goods (save for our weapons, which I found puzzling), my thoughts were for the precious, sentimental items I knew were in Jack's saddlebags. Namely, the gifted journal from my dear Belodin, and the wooden carving from Baldmar. I was inwardly distraught to think they were lost forever. But fortune was with us the next day, when we drew near their recently abandoned camp, and found our packs and bags strewn about on the ground. Though they took all of our food, they had no value for books or carvings, and after crawling through the grass in desperate searching, I was able to recover both. Foolish, perhaps, how much they mean to me.
Now, I must put down my journal and try to sleep. I am very weary of sleeping under rocks and trees. The thought of a hot meal, a roaring hearth, a long bath, and a proper feather bed, will sustain me until we set foot on the beloved plains of home.
