In the grey loneliness of the road, I have nothing but my own thoughts for company. Thoughts that circle darker and darker, carrion crows kept back by naught but walls of mist. In the rhythm of my stride, only stubborn force of will keeps me hoping my journey has a purpose.
Or so it seems, until in the darkness I see others fighting against the rot of Arda Marred. They may be scattered, walking alone, but working for the same purpose. There are those whose kindness, and listening ears draw me out of the shadows of my mind. Those conversations that shine as bright as the numinous stars.
In Bree, with single minded focus, I strove to keep my courage. I sought any who had been on the road south, I combed the library and obscure archives for any mention of Dunland, any note on the language, any word however seemingly useless, and any map no matter how ancient.
Yet there I was met by the welcoming fire of a cosy inn. I met a kind-hearted Dunlending woman, who patiently instructed me in the language and in the different clans of Dunland. And from dread at the unknown, she awoke in me a curiosity and longing that perhaps I can learn from the men of Dunland what songs they sing, what lore they tell. Could a duvodiad be privileged so?
There late into the night, I spoke with a young scholar. Her eyes were alight with curiosity and love of learning. Her courage to go into danger to seek knowledge from the scattered ruins. The tales of Arnor I had thought forgotten except by the Dúnedain, yet the ruins of the past are not forgotten—not while Li braves brigands and bandits to save that heritage. She turned my mind to lighter things, things I had almost lost sight of. The colour of my wedding dress, laughter by the river bank. Small things, but a balm to remember. May our paths cross again!
I thought myself so brave, but no, it is the tales of others that deserve to be told. The dwarven messenger, whose voice rang with passion as he spoke of Khazad-dûm, of his love, not only for the stories of his own people, but the lore of Elves as well, who had been to places I can scarcely imagine. The Elf who spoke, not of vanished grandeur, but of the glory he still sees in Gondor and in men.
And then, last night, at a small camp in the wild, the Ranger from the South, who asked if I needed aid. He could have given me none better than what he did, the sharing of waybread by the fire, and tales of his long labours beside Elves and the Northern Dúnedain. Tales of the deeds of the Warband of Imladris, and his compassionate listening to my own quest. He gave to me the emblem of his company, which he says should be known in Imladris—another reminder that though I may feel it, I am not so alone.
The stories I tell are of people. Whether they passed into the west, or left the circles of the world, they lived and breathed all the same. And now I have the privilege of hearing the stories of those who share my own age.
The past is not forgotten. Nor is its courage dead.
