mysterious relics

The journey wasn't so hard now that I know the Trollshaws better. It still took me twelve days to get to Bree, mind. And three days from there to get to the border of the North Downs. Orcs are everywhere. Wherever you look there is an orc or warg nearby... When I finally found the gate to Trestlebridge, the town was in a sorry state. Smoke rose from burnt out homes... and carts were overthrown in ruins. Provisions lay scattered, and many were weeping.

I’ve been reading the reports of the Warband of Imladris and I’ve come across something interesting. In some places in Middle-Earth there are some mysterious relics… strange stones emitting weird substances and causing people to go mad and have strange feelings of dread. One of them can be found in the North Downs… I think I would like to investigate this for myself. I have never heard of anything like it.

The sunlight beyond my closed eyelids paints the inside of my eyes red. Which day now?  ... is it hours or days ... my horse finds his own meandering way, I cannot help him or guide him. The loose stones click against his hooves. We are climbing, swaying in the saddle, weaker than a newborn, slumped over my belly. Where the crow and the girl and the dunlander are I have no knowledge. Mayhap he can follow my trail ... I am too enfeebled to care.

The Dunlander is certain he has located the second stone. Nestled like a ravenous cookoo in the soft bounty of the halflings' Shire. By report a pretty, placid land of nothing and no-one, populated by childlike bumbling farmers intent on buccolic pleasures. Insular, isolated and adrift in a fantasy where the sun always shines and the butter is as fat and yellow as their own creamy cows. For folk such as these, not even lesser Men, but for these bovine- bellied gardeners, the last blood of the North spends itself.

The world is a game - and how I love it. My fingers pick up and place each pawn. See the elven maid Celebhir wither in the high tower, the Rook's emprisoning rookery. This northern Woman, a Queen in my hand. The second stone discovered - my Dunlander's quest - like a Knight in a tale.

My Poppinjay clicks his piece down upon the board, pulling me from my distraction. He smiles, a slow lazy pleasure. He knows I will not chide a man for using his intelligence. The word slips from his lips, his eyes dance with the rare moment -

'Check'

Any good Hobbit banquet is long. The music, dancing but mainly the eating carried on throughout the night, the Hobbits eating continuously except for pauses to refill their plates or glasses. The Elvish guests could find nothing to complain about - the Hobbit food was delicious and varied. There were pies of all sorts (though the Hobbits were eager to offer biscuits to the Elves, perhaps guessing that the rich food was not always to their palate), delicious fresh spring vegetables and even the last of the fruit stored over the winter.

Let it be remembered - I gave her a choice.

I place my pen down, push the stopper back into the blue-black ink bottle, lean back into my chair. The lad quietly takes away my papers, placing them neatly to one side. He gathers them reverently now, as though anything I touch is imbued with some vital essence.

No time to think of what I have sown there. It is done.

But what is sown now?