Elwen vanwa rusva dineth
The mind veers into strange modes of contemplation after great tragedy. In my youthful arrogance I had always acted as if there could be no pain or fear sufficient to affect one’s duty to the Tel’Quessir. Within my broken memories, always were you the one who understood my devotion, my need to serve our people as megilindir Edhel e’Tua a’L OioKalina Vakhan. My mother and father attempted to teach me differently, that there were other paths, the artistry of helping things grow, healing, or the satisfaction derived from working with nature’s wares to build things of elegance and function. Our great prince, your father, offered paths of service to the people that were just as valued, and instructions on command fit for ruling. Your brother taught the lessons of failure, and all did I, did we, ignore. I failed, we failed, in our first great duty to the people, and much has been lost since, all because of a warped need to love and protect the intimate instead of those to whom I swore such devotion.
I have not touched this journal since the bittersweet victory of a few of weeks ago. I, who once practiced prose and poetry for nearly every relaxing moment, can hardly bear to put quill to parchment. For whom do I write such diseased ramblings anyway? Habit generated the madness spewed across pages a fortnight ago, a sickness purged from a broken mind, reliving treachery, tragedy and death where light, bravery and devotion died. I despise what I have become, ache with longing for dreams lost, and beauty sundered while reflecting on unanswered questions. The Valar provided no relief, restoring enough to cause more doubt, and not enough to act with certainty. I acknowledge what we did, but how did I escape, how did I arrive at this place here, now? Is this the façade now covering the horror of nightmare, where reverie no longer provides honest remembrance? Has the poison purged itself, or does it hide in the recesses of a demon possessed mind?
Reverie brings no peace, not in the last months. I envy my friends their slumber, Null wrapped around an ale-skin, snores thundering across the snow-laden glade. Dwylen, his elven heritage lost in the warmth of his animal form, rumbling as if in hibernation. Eldan, sleeping peacefully wrapped in a sun-fire cloak, an aura of Pelor’s warmth radiating out into the frigid air. Even Calec, who stands watch, crunching through the frozen crust, appears at peace. I now trust to another to perform a service that would not once have been required; Calek and I have reached a true understanding, and he knows his duty, regardless of what our queen may desire.
Perhaps centuries of serene thoughtfulness and reflection would bring peace, and maybe I should withdraw and search for a haven in which to consider if it were not for the fact that my broken memory does not even allow knowledge of my own age, and the years left to which I may subscribe such action. Who else would accept such a cursed soul, a safe glen other that my new family anyway? So peaceful reflection is lost to me as well, except in the darkest of night when my comrades rest. Once, I heard a human mutter a phrase about the witching hour, where the darkest demons of the night arise to play. What would be more apropos than to reflect on the demon that has hidden within for centuries, and how to banish it forever?
We reach Darviel tomorrow, returning those who have lost loved ones from the evils we awoke to ravage Azgald’s Honor. Defeat them we did, yes, but not without loss to our queen’s people. Every action is too late, a step behind those responsible for my original corruption. Perhaps upon our return, Adelaide will have solidified her resolve to become Queen of this shattered land, to protect the people of course, and to strengthen the will of all to fight this ancient dread, perhaps also to grant peace to a tortured spirit.
Last Dreams 