Araenion

I'm all fer a good tale. But this aeranion goes on an' on ... I dursent understand a third o' what he says. Gyth's eyes are as bright as the sun ... i aint able ter keep mine open. He's spinnin' some nonsense about this fornost. Taint what Gyth heard from her burnt man. I dursen't know what ter think about him and this araenion now.

Makin' me mind up though. Iffen I aint trusted, an' he is being paid by the burnt man... then feh.. iffen I going ter be hung fer a lie then I may as well be hung fer a truth. Iffen the burnt man dursent trust me, then i shant bother being honest.

so he aint dead. i'm thinkin' we might wish he were. He turns up back at the bridge town, just as I finish collectin' some coins from the local folk... Gyth being his 'pore ol' young widdow' an' all. Heh, well it were worth a try. Stupid Bawde made me give all the coins back once that Araenion showed his face again though. Gyth made a good widdow... she'm was proper cryin' and she'm very pretty when she does it too. I jus' goes all red and blotchy.

Never trust Gyth ter pick a warrior. I said we should have gone for the leader o' them chetwood lot. He may be as ugly as chewed boot, but he looks like he could last a few years.

But no - Gyth flutters her eyes and waves her hair about, an' picks this bloody lad, face as fair as a maid an' about as effective. Goes by the jaw-cracking wealas name o' Araenion. Or Onion... feh. I dursen't know, by the time we gets to the Bridge Town, whether he's escortin' us north, or whether we'm looking after -him-.

                                                                                              Bree-Town, Y

She is singing. In all my days I have never heard such. She has been singing for half the day. The first real sounds I have had from her ... and she is singing. As we neared the glooming hills and narrow passes she opened her lips ... and a thread of colour came forth. The sound comingled with the cries of the suprised birds, enticed them to open their throats and join her.

I watch her pull up the hood of the cloak that I have given her. Enveloped in its sable folds, clad in the black dress, her face shines softly, the moon in clouds. She has been enclosed in this tent for long enough, it is time to move her to more fitting accomodation.

I pull back the flap of the tent sharply. The first true light for her in many a day. I see her eyes open to receive the starlight, turning her face in yearning before, senses opened, the shock of the scene before her slaps her back to reality.

She sits. Because I tell her to sit. I am a man of passion, and dark humours boil within me now. She is wise to heed my words and do as I command.

I pour two glasses of the finest red that I have. The cut of the glasses deepen and intensify the rich colour of the wine. It is too crude to liken it to the blood of my man that she has caused to be spilt. My man, to me. To her and her ilk, just a Man.What can they know, secure within their timelessness, about what life is? About what life is, to a Man?

I invite her to remove all her gear, to place it all on the table beside me. Her eyes widen as she realises I speak in her language. Well enough; though each slippery syllable is bitter in my mouth, thick as ashes. I am an erudite Man, not a slack jawed fool. She needs to understand.