The Ranger watches me when he thinks no one marks him.  I feel the brush of his glances against my skin like the falling leaves of the mallorns.  His interest is troubling though I cannot put a name to my qualms.

Everything about this journey is troubling.  Elrond will not welcome the news I bring of the wretched prisoner’s escape from Mirkwood and the Lord of Rivendell’s countenance is already grave.  I do not have to look far for the source of his disquiet.

It is this Council: the Council of Elrond.

All of the Free Races are represented here.  Elves from Rivendell, Lothlorien and, of course, Mirkwood.  Men from Minas Tirith.  Dwarves from whatever hole in the ground had vomited them forth.  And the Hobbits, who were not called, but were brought here by the Ranger.  I have not met one of them yet, but they look very young.

My father was right.  There are many disturbing and puzzling things in the world beyond the Woodland Realm.  Perhaps it would be best if we closed our borders as my Sire wishes.  I do not know if I would wish to ally myself with these other Races after seeing the examples present here.

Boromir.  Even the Man’s name sounds aggressive.  He may call himself an envoy of the Steward of Gondor, but he is a warrior to the bone.  His eyes are the eyes of the wolf in winter and his gaze is even more troubling than the Ranger’s.  Despite the richness of his garments and his armor, there is an air of neediness about him, a hunger, desperation.  Men with such eyes often commit rash acts; they cannot be trusted, as father has often said.

Of course, my father has said the same of the Elves of Rivendell and Lorien, indeed of anyone who was not born in Mirkwood.  I admit that Lord Elrond’s realm seems strange to me.  They are as fond as we in Mirkwood of the elegant, flowing lines of natural forms, but their ornamentation seems plain and formal to me.  Their colors are those of Autumn while we in Mirkwood still wear the fresh greens of Spring or Summer’s flower-bright hues.

The less said of the Dwarves the better.  Though I expected their appearance to be foul, I was not prepared for the alien-ness of them, these dwellers in darkness, greed gleaming in eyes half-buried in hair.  I can scarcely bear to look at them.  I do not know what is at the heart of the long enmity between the Elves and the Dwarves, but I could believe any offense of such vile-seeming folk.

By the very presence of our ancient rivals, I deem the reason for the calling of this Council to be a weighty one concerning all Races.  I shall include my impressions of the gathering in this journal as I record my thoughts at the day’s end.  At my father’s behest, I have done this since I learned to make letters with brush and pen and I always find time for it before I take my rest.

I find myself curious about the Hobbits, as they name themselves.  So young, as I have already observed: even younger than Men who seem impossibly young to me.  Except for the Ranger.

The Ranger.  Why does his image plague my mind’s eye at odd moments like this one?  I have heard things about him of course.  His arrival with the small folk set Elrond’s court talking about nothing else and deepened the lines graven on Elrond’s countenance.

I have learned that the Ranger is Estel, Lord Elrond’s foster-son, but he is also Aragorn of the line of Isildur and therefore heir to Gondor’s throne.  Yet, he lives in Rivendell and roams the Wilds, far from the habitations of Men.  Perhaps his exile is the source of the grimness I see in his face

The Ranger does not mingle with the Men now visiting Rivendell.  He does not join them at their messy meals or raucous games.  He stays with the Hobbit that was wounded and keeps his own counsel.  I have seen him sitting in the window and brooding as though all the cares of Middle Earth were his to cure.

Though he is but a Man, there is something noble about this Aragorn.  No doubt, his fostering among Elrond’s folk is responsible for this.  However, I have given him too much space in my journal already.  Mithrandir has arrived; the Council will soon convene and I must deliver my difficult message.

I wish father might have charged one of my brothers with this task, but I have lately fallen from his favor.  It is a seemingly mild punishment, but father is clever.  He knows how contact with outsiders grates on me and expects me to return to Mirkwood much chastened and grateful for the sanctuary of his kingdom.

To go home is my fondest wish and my greatest dread, but I will not write of that.  There are things I will not confess even to the silent confidant of my journal.  They have their place in my most secret diary: the one written on my heart.

I grow weary or rather these dark, persistent thoughts have smothered my spirit.  Lady Arwen has returned, they say, and will join Lord Elrond for the evening meal.  I look forward to meeting she who is called Luthien born again.

And perhaps, now that Mithrandir has taken charge of the Hobbits, Lord Elrond’s foster-son will be there.

THE END