2970, Summer
Darling Sister,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. This summer’s heat has been oppressive, but it is with great delight that I find myself in cool shelter within of the Halls of Harmlet nestled in Blue Mountains. I had arrived here not but two weeks ago after a rather pleasant journey from Bree, my path taking me through the lands of the Hobbits, up through Grey Haven and Mithlond, and finally North along the mountains to our the Hall.
Prior to my departure from Bree, I set about the town searching for answers regarding the deep burning questions present by my discoveries in spring. It was a rather elderly gentleman of the town guard that pointed me in the direction of the ancient hall. He had witnessed, in the past, a young dwarf travel through the town bearing jewelry marvelously marked with runes similar to what I have in my possession. This dwarf’s jewelry, who I had later learned to be named Pomma, seemed to entrance the guard who, young in his day, assisted her in locating bed and breakfast. Pomma enchanted him so, and the impression left a deep mark in his memory. In learning that Pomma had come from the Halls of Harmelt in the North-West, I had made it my assignment to travel there to find if Pomma, or anyone for the matter, could help me unearth secrets of what I possessed.
My planned route to the Halls would take me West across the Great East Road, over the Brandywine, and through the Shire. I would rest in Hobbiton a day before journeying off the road to Grey Haven where I would be required to find passage across the Lune to Mithlond. In Mithlond I would again take a day or two to rest before traveling North through the rough country to my final destination.
On the day of departure, I acquired, at the last moment, a pony to assist me. Annabelle is a sweet thing, a beautiful golden brown with a few white spots to adorn her breast. Trusting beyond doubt, our bond grew strong when our travels became difficult.
We proceeded with rapidity towards the Brandywine, the roads in good repair and the weather pleasant. We only dilly dallied for a moment when we came upon that familiar fen where in the Spring those courting frogs had once mesmerized me. I sat and had a pipe upon the same rise as before, closing my eyes and dreaming of that fanciful night. There, half by automation as I had sung this song in my leisure since first hearing it, I sung those guttural notes of the polliwog’s song. As I did, I could swear that the ground around me echoed those notes, joining me in chorus and refrain. But I did not open my eyes, for if it were a dream, I did not wish to leave it. We camped in this spot that night, and as the sun went down those resident amphibians emerged, but only in sound.
In the morning we continued West across the Brandywine and soon found ourselves in Hobbiton. The Hobbits are a curious folk. They seem lively and courteous, but also distrustful, as though they believe me to carry them away from their peaceful homes to some dangerous quest. Perturbed by this, I mainly kept to myself and took delight in fishing The Water which ran nearby.
It was in this brief indulgence of activity that a disconcerting event took place. In a sudden caprice, I had lost grip on my line and my rod was pulled into the water. I had become angry with myself for this sudden lackadaisical daydreaming, and waded into the water to find my rod and line. It was when I plunged my head beneath the water to search for my tools that an ominous horror came. As I dipped my head beneath, the sound of rushing water filled my head. Then faintly, but ever growing, a cry of anguish could be discerned amongst the cacophony of water. Quickly snatching my rod, I thrust above the surface and frantically searched for those cries. But my search divulged no creator of such noise, nor any other persons around. The episode had stirred me, and the tranquil clearing I had once stood held no more peace for me. I retired for the remainder of the day, preparing to set out in the morning.
The remaining days of travel through Arthedain passed by comfortably, the only event of note being my meeting with a grouchy little Hobbit who called himself Winx. He had a small camp on top of a hill and, upon seeing my figure crest the ridge, beckoned me over with enthusiasm. Although being my host, he offered me no tea and only pressed me for information regarding the Elves. He had been camping here for two weeks now, waiting to catch a glimpse of a rumored Elven caravan moving west towards Grey Haven. Enthralled by the Elves, he could speak of nothing else, and when I attempted to discuss my current quest regarding our ancestral history the Hobbit protested. “Why not let the dead lie,” he exclaimed? Eventually, annoyed and angered with my host, I returned to my journey in a sour mood.
My arrival in Grey Haven was two days earlier than planned, such had been my good fortune up to this point. The plan being to recuperate on the opposite side of the Lune in Mithlond, and in much need of recuperation, I quickly set about to find a ship. In the seaside tavern Forget Me Knot, I identified a sailor that presented extreme confidence in her craft and inquired to employ her services. Mariel, the brilliant sailor, expressed her condolences. While she would have liked to sail us across the Lune, her vessel was in need of repair. Discussion commenced in which I offered my abilities in repairing her vessel for passage to Mithlond, which she agreed to. I spent the following day in a forge, crafting two exquisite pulleys for Mariel’s vessel. By that evening, we had set off from Grey Haven and arrived in Mithlond shortly after sun down. Watching the sun set over the gulf was one of the most majestic events I’ve witnessed.
I rested a week in Mithlond, preparing myself for the final stint of my journey. I ate and drank my fill, for I knew that the country ahead would be the roughest yet. It was in my respite when, by fortune, I happened to meet a fellow dwarf who was traveling from the Halls of Harmlet. Over a few suppers, he reciprocated the meals with information regarding a stable and safe path to follow. It would require me to travel closer to the mountains than I had anticipated, but I held a primeval trust in him.
The day I commenced on the final leg, the searing heat of summer arrived in fury. My only blessings were the few hours when the sun dipped below the mountains and cast long shadows across the hills. In addition to this, if the path recommended by our kin was the safe and stable one I dare not imagine what the other paths might be! The way was rocky and dry, not a stream or creek with water suitable for drink. Annabelle began to suffer dearly in these wretched conditions and the lack of water exacerbated the situation. Annabelle’s situation became so dire, that I remitted the last of my water for her for the final two days or journey. You can imagine the joy we felt upon our first glimpse of the Halls of Harmlet!
We were welcomed in, and, the resident observing our pitiful state, tended to us with mineral water and cool stones. It book us both a full day of recovery before Annabelle and I returned to our full faculties. It was then that I was able to observe this Hall in all its glory! How magnificent!
I have heard that Pomma still resides in the Hall, and when ready I shall progress to greet her and present my story. I shall inform you of the outcome of this meeting once achieved. Until then, I wish you a joyous summer and reprieve from this wrathful heat.
Affectionately,
Rori
No comments:
Post a Comment