What is life? What is dead? What is good? What is bad? Why are we all doing this? Fighting in middle-earth? To clean the land of orcs? Honour, valour, hope, despair, faith... or freedom? We risk our lives, every day, yet I do not feel me a hero. I feel me small instead. I wanted to be a child again, to be close by mother, I even prefer to listen to the loud voice of father, how harsh and commanding it might be. For childs are so innocent.
I wanted that I could learn archery, or at least trying...That Amarthorn would still be living and that he could tell me his wise tales again. Everything he told me, about the fell deeds of the Red Company, of the children, of Rossiel, but also these of great heroes of our time, or better, these of our age. I wish to hear again about Turin, Glaurung the dragon, about the silmarils, about Beren and Luthien, about eärendil, the fall of Gondolin...Or simply about Rohan, far lesser and younger than the deeds of the first age but still as valuable. But one thing is certain: there is no point in us fighting. Not even against the crafts of the enemy.
Now I should not be that far in Mirkwood, but I am! I should be by Allyss, my wife. I should be by my son. I should be by my friends. But I'm not there, I am here. In this nameless place, so close by the camp of the enemy, in a forgotten place on a timeless day. Sorry for my lament, but I am very depressed, by this darkness and air. I am crying out nonsense. I should be fighting indeed, but I don't see. I remember not very much anymore after all. Not even why I came here. So long I haven't seen my kin anymore, they're probably missing me.
But I charge nevertheless, crying out the name of my order. I do this, for them. Because morality says me to do so, that I have to repel this threat. Fire burns, swords clash, voices cry, blood is spilled and I feel pain. Pain in my hearth, because it grieves me not to see them back again. But Also pain in my belly, because I have pain in my hearth.
