[Several pages are taken up with what appear to be the shorthand for various cutting and footwork drills. Each is followed by a series of tallies — so many that the writer ran out of room to make distinguishable marks. Whether so many repetitions were completed all at the time of writing or over a longer period is unclear, but the pages represent many hours of practice.]
—
I realized today that I was no longer thinking of Tornhad — of my house — as home. I do not know what to do with this knowledge, and indeed I wish I had not thought of it at all. I ought to be better. I thought I would be able to. That I could be…normal, or at least not…this. That was where he was wrong — I do not revel in being an outcast and unpleasant and unliked. Indeed it seems that the more I ever tried to be liked, the worse off I was. And I did try, but I seemed to always have it wrong, no matter how many times I would watch and copy what the other children did. What good it has done me!
I ought to turn back, to return home and be among my own people.
I cannot.
—
[The rest of the note-book is filled with sketches of a foreign landscape. Most recognizable are the watching-stones of Angmar – twisted, agonized shapes which stretch to fill the pages. What few words are written are hasty and messy, clearly notes the author needed to remember rather than chances for self-reflection. The pages are intermittently stained with smears and splashes of something which has dried dark brown.]
