Celossiel

The winds snapped and billowed around the small camp, causing the Northling to pull the furs up further across his head and body shortly before a boot softly nudged into his thigh followed by a amused voice. "Breakfast is ready, runt."  The man sat down beside him, placing a plate infront of Ioranir who simply replied with a growl.

this story is a pure allegory for what Amathlan fears he will become. view Pride's POV here. view Patience's POV here.

I stare down at the ring on my finger. Unlike the traditions of Men, we bear our rings on our right index finger. This is the one time I am grateful that I bear arms with my left hand; there is less of a chance of me losing the ring whilst swinging a sword. (Though it is not as if I plan to bear arms again anytime soon). 

A small blue velvet box has been left on the polished table along with a hastily scrawled note. The note is contained below.

Warning: Could be slightly graphic for some. 

-----------

Our scouting mission through the Lone Lands has now become more than I every could have imagined. We have been on the road for weeks. Sir Ioranir has been on his own mission, to find those that raised him. As for Amathlan, he was to learn of those who we were tracking, the Sons of Burzum. These two missions have carried us all the way from Bree, to Evendim. But now we rest in a village, far to the north of Forochel.

Some time after the return from Forochel; Imladris, Third Age.

With Ithilwe's head against my shoulder, the rest of the evening is spent silently pondering what is to come next. 

Foolhardy. 

Drunk. 

Insane.