A messenger of Lord Celeborn arrived today to tell me that the invasion of Mirkwood will launch on the first day of Ringarë. He told me that the Lord and Lady deeply desired that I join the Golden Host as they cross the Anduin; I , of course, promised my presence. I shall begin my journey to Lóthlorien in a few days - this time it should go more smoothly than my first trip through the Mines!

I am starting to have doubts about the raid into Mirkwood. Once the Malledhrim have gone, the Golden Wood will be more vulnerable than ever. What if the enemy should strike at home? There are already camps in Fanuidhol to the north and Nanduhirion to the west. Also, a large number of orcs - though perhaps there number has been culled since last I was there - dwell in the First Hall, just before the East Gate of Moria. Should they spill out and overtake the valley, doom might be cast for the Galadhrim. Yet, it is said those woods are under a spell of protection. May it hold strong against any plots of the enemy!

I am also beginning to think that the dwarves are foolhardy and rash in their hopes of rescuing Bori and the other dwarves. Would a simple soldier be permitted such bold lengths as to accost the very gates of Dol Guldur to save his captured brother?  No, the thought is laughable. And I shall not sleep at perfect peace while Mazog yet lives. What if he were to escape in the wilds of Mirkwood? Would not the ancient evils that haunt there give him their aid and protection? What if we should reach that fortress, and in exchange for the goblin-king we are given the long-dead bodies of the dwarves, and the wicked laughter of the Nazgul? Or perhaps the barter would be rejected outright. The enemy has not hesitated to rid itself of its own lieutenants, and the fact that Mazog is being presented in shackles may convince the enemy that he is unfit for further ruling. Or if the bargain goes as planned, what if Mazog should return to Moria and undo most if not all of the expedition’s progress?

I do not mean to sound cold - all life is sacred, and every death a veritable tragedy. I sincerely hope that the dwarves may be recovered. But these tidings put my heart at unease, and I sense a coming storm that might spell defeat for the Free Peoples.

There has been little work for me to do in Moria or the Golden Woods. Preparations for the invasion of Mirkwood carry on smoothly, and I have done all I can for the moment. Therefore, I have decided to visit Rivendell, since it is not so far away. The Elves are very friendly to me, and most remember my face. Elrond’s library is a treasure trove of knowledge, and it has been a comfort to me in many of my past journeys here. At night there are gatherings of song and dance and tales of old, which do much to lighten the heart. The food is hearty and delicious, and the wine sweet as honey.

But I did not come here for the great stores of lore, or the merriment, or the fair company. No, I have come to think. Often I will roam alone on quiet paths, listening to the twitter of birds and watching the dandelion seeds sail blithely through the air, and think on my life and the strange adventures which have led me to where I am now. I think of my parents, dim though their memory may be; I think of the sadness on my mother’s face when I was sent to Ganrig, the stern resolve of my father as he wished me the guidance and protection of the Valar. I loved them well, and to be rent from them was excruciating, but had they not consigned me to the cabin in the mountains I likely would not have met the wondrous people that I have, nor been able to partake in the extraordinary feats of good I have witnessed. I believe my parents to be in the Halls of Mandos now, and may they there find peace.

At night when I lay and gaze at the stars which shine ever purple over Imladris, the infant waters of the Bruinen and sometimes a faint Elvish song in my ears, my thought is turned ever to Albrya. I think it to be a marvel of Vairë that we should be wed, that she should grace me with her divinely radiant hand while I was but a haggard waif of the woods, lesser-born. But also it is the more bitter that I should lose her, be robbed of her, after she had gifted me with a son and given him so much love and warmth. That she should be taken in the prime of her life by the very servants of Death I may only understand when I stand before the great Weaver face-to-face. To explain to little Venhelm that mother had to go away for awhile, that I needed to give him to a very respectable dwarf so that I could go retrieve mother, that everything would be alright, that we would all be together again very soon…oh, how the tears stung…

But the past is beyond changing, and I must live out the present in trust of the Powers. I must accept that some mysteries I may never understand, and some things I may never undo. I must follow my road for the good of the world and all free peoples, that for them a happy life may be possible.

I have made a trip to the Shire and partaken in the many festivities there. That country always softens my heart- the beautiful, rolling hills, the lush meadows, the deep blue sky, and the cheerful folk all make for a wonderful little corner of the earth far from weariness and troubles. This year they have a charming little race where hobbits run along a course marked by tables, where they eat various foods before hurrying to the next. I have bet many tokens on a pretty young hobbit girl by the name of Gladdy Chubb-Baggins, and many times she has failed me. Of her, at the moment, I will say no more.

Also, I was recently in another party which tried to oust the Watcher from the deeps. This effort was spearheaded by Leofwine, the valorous man who has accompanied me in many adventures. Needless to say it did not succeed, but our defeat was less disastrous than my first encouter with the creature, and we learned a few secrets of the Watcher’s weakness. The damage was nothing some rest and hobbit food and ale did not fix. In a few days is planned another assault, which may finally extirpate the vile beast.

And for events of great import: I mentioned before of the evil beacons planted by Gorothúl throughout Khazad-dum. The elf Lenglammel told me that the greatest of these was in that foul cave Azanarukâr in The Foundations of Stone, where before I and a company slew the dread beast Gwathnor. So, the great elf Magor, a minstrel, a man who I think is a thief by trade, and I set out to eliminatethe idol. We found it: a great, terrible ball that seemed to emanate malevolence. Once it was destroyed we were accosted by a ressurected Gwathnor-horror of horrors! We did battle with the giant creature, and during it were attacked by Caeryg- great, rock-like creatures made of the fell shadow of Dol Guldur. Luckily, we bested all of these, and made our way back to safety. Lenglammel then told me to tell Haldir that the dwarves were going to take Mazog before the gates of Dol Guldur as hostage, and that a fleet should be prepared with all haste for the invasion of Mirkwood. This errand I accepted readily, for the sacred air of Lothlórien was a welcome change from those terrible, deathly depths. Once the message was recieved Haldir told me that the preparations for the invasion could not be rushed, and all necessary things would find fulfillment while the dwarves were circumventing the Golden Wood Anduin-bound.

The day draws nigh where I myself must cross that great river, and I will fight proudly shoulder-to-shoulder with the Immortal Children of Ilúvatar.

Well! My spell of inactivity has been put to a sudden and decisive end. While in the Golden Wood-atop Talan Haldir, overlooking the lush Dimrill Dale- I was told that I was asked after by an Issuriel, who would hear of my doings under the Mountain. I went to Cerin Amroth and visited her, and she asked me how I escaped after the capture of Mazog. This reminded me that I had failed to jot it down, so the tale unfolded thus:

After Mazog had yielded to the party of elves and dwarves there was a debate as to the fate of the vile creature. Broín wanted to bring him before the gates of Dul Guldur in hopes of exchanging him for the lost dwarves, his brother Bori among them. I thought this was unwise and that he should be slain while we had the chance, but my counsel was left unheeded. I put the shackles on the goblin, and he told me that when we were at our weakest he would spring out of them and attack. We escorted him out of the halls, all the while being harried by his minions-who were promptly dispatched. Once we reached the end he did indeed tear his bonds asunder and attack, but we were able to bring him under our control again- a shame, for I tried my darndest to end his miserable life right there. Where he is held now, I know not.

Anyways, Issuiel told me to revist the little encampment in the Foundations of Stone-that terrible den of bizzare creatures in the very bowels of Caradhras. There I spoke with Forglinn and Lenglammel, elves of old acquaintance. They sent me to speak with Broín in The Peaceful Path, a little alcove in northern Moria which has a door leading out into the mountain tops. He in turn told me that Gorothúl, that terrible Sorceror who imprisoned the dwarves and took them to Dol Guldur, had placed a strange idol in the depths of Lumul-nar, an old shaft-system long abandoned. I, a fellow master of lore named Bandora, and a champion called Troin set out after the thing. After we braved the treacherous winds before the entrance (it was in the aforementioned outside area) we had to climb down a long way. From there we slew wargs and countless, countless, countless Merrevail, all the while descending further and pivoting large, golden mirrors-these reflected light which opened door ways by eliminating strange webs which fear the touch of day. After awhile we came to a large area of Wooden platforms which hung at the roof of a cave-enormous does not describe it. We must have been a dozen miles up, and no railings, mind you! Yet I could see little fires below, and knew they were not dwarf-made. We found the idol-a strange, glowing ball at the center of what looked like a small, dead, stunted tree trunk, and demolished it. Luckily, we found a rope ladder-if only we had seen it before!-which took us back to the top. It was exhausting business, and I shall take a small rest before moving on.

Also, I hear that the summer festival has begun in Eriador. I shall have to make a trip there when I can.

The Galadhrim have helped me to heal from my foray against the Watcher. They have all manner of wonderful salves and ointments that swiftly seal wounds and enlimber joints. I have been slowly regaining strength, limiting myself to the domestic-though not wholly unpleasant-chores ever in need of doing here. Praise be to Estë for my recovery.

Also, I have been working on my fishing skills. The Mines are mostly dry, and what water is there is foul beyond penning, and thus my fishing pole lay dusty and unassembled in my pack for quite some time. But now in the blessed river Celebrant can again enjoy my little hobby, and it is said that in these waters Ulmo’s power still flows. After showing a number of my finest catches to representatives of the Eriador Fishing Society- they made the journey through Moria- they awarded me the highest designation: a little plaque that fits onto my pole that reads ‘Denlag, Lord of Streams’. I am extremely honored, and hope to have many relaxing afternoons by the riverbank hereafter.

This reminds me of a time many years ago in northern lands when Albrya and I were making the journey to Bree with Venhelm. He was just a little lad-all I shall ever know him as, I fear- but bright as a polished agate, and took to new things quickly. We had reached a nice little clearing with a brook running through it at about noon and had decided to take a rest- we had been marching since sunrise. As Albrya lay in the grass I found a stick and some string and tried to teach Venhelm how to fish. At first all was quiet-only Venhelm standing there, beaming- but then there was such a ferocious tug on my line, perhaps a pike or something, that I gave a start. I struggled with it for a few moments, and then the line snapped, and I tumbled into the cold waters. And how we all laughed, that joyous laughter, how I wish to hear it again! But those days are gone, far gone, and I treasure their memory like Silmarils.

Namáríë

Cannot-write much..sallied against Watcher..unsuccessful. Dread-..overwhelming. That terrible..roar-AH! still rings..was seized by its.. tendrils. Bloodied and b-beaten..barely escaped. Need time to-recooperate..

Also..Nornúan-lies..dead. Hah!

I am sorry to say that I had to blow dust off the cover and stir the ink bottle for a few minutes before I could begin to write. Little to report, far too little indeed. Most of my time is spent idling, or doing small chores for the Silvan folk that have now become tedious. I never thought I would say-or pen-this, but I tire of the Golden Wood. Yes, it is splendorful beyond measure, and is truly blessed among realms. But now that I am more than rested, I am eager to cross the Anduin to pursue the lost dwarves. Every setting of the sun makes their lot more perilous, I am sure. When I mention this to the Galadhrim, they laugh, and say, ‘Not yet! Haste is the virtue of the Atani!’ If we men also harbored a silly prejudice against Durin’s Folk, I might say the same.

Of the mines there is not much to relate. The dwarves continue in their efforts of reclamation and restoration, which is slow, but at least seemingly unharried. The bulk of my time there I spend in the Twenty-first Hall or in a library nearby, Mekhem-Fakak it is named, which is habitually infested with all manner of creatures but houses treasure troves of lore. I also craft bottled athelas elixirs, which sell for a profit. Also, several times I have banded with eleven others-usually most of them known to me-and forayed against a gigantic monstrosity that is perhaps one of the most bizarre things I have encountered in Moria. It resides within The Great Wheel in the Waterworks district, a flooded, ruined aqueduct system within a vast cave dotted with towers. Now, the only entrance to the beast’s chamber is through a short, narrow, moldy passage, which he could have never managed through. I also have never noticed any other passage leading to the chamber, so how he arrived I haven’t the slightest clue. He is a turtle, Nornúan by name, like to the ones that roam Malenhad in Angmar. He is around three men tall from foot to head, and over two long from shoulder to tail. His eyes glow with a blind evil, his shell is spiked and jagged around the edges, and his tail is sharp and deadly, flailing wildly in battle. Also, I cannot explain it, but somehow the very air in there creates sores all over your body which leak blood, and they fester as time goes on. Needless to say contending with the beast is dreadful, and every time I have attempted my company was made to retreat. I hope someday it will end differently.

The Watcher sits unharmed. Once I can muster the force, I will see that he chokes on his own tentacles.

Aha! At last! I have acquired the final piece of the armor set I needed: the pauldrons. I was aided by the guardian Leofwine, whose strength in combat is unparalleled, a keeper of runes called Shishrond, a woman hunter who went by the name of Mrs.Cakes-perhaps not in her right mind, but her aim was true- a captain named Haslfrith, and a champion called Fenore. They all have my hearty thanks.The armor wears very well and gives a boost to my morale. I will recount the endeavor:

The place I needed to enter is called the Sixteenth Hall. It is a long cave system- even though it is within the grand cave of Moria- whose function of old I cannot guess. Some unholy species of green filth grows from the ceilings and the cracks in the walls. The first leg is held by the infected Globsnaga-orcs, but by the sword of Leofwine we clove through them as hot butter. Then there was an orc of visible rank-for he stood upon a dais with two servants abreast- and though he did not appear infected, he would cough up some vile bile that diseased all near it. Fortunately, I am trained in the curing of maladies and the orc was slain. Continuing we found more globsnaga; some sat down and looked disabled yet when approached they keeled over, and out came three little worms, fragile yet vicious. After a ways we came unto a chamber, in which was isolated an orc who was the most severely infected I had ever seen. He was as a walking, axe-weidling spore. Around him were mushrooms that would explode occasionally, covering any nearby with a nasty filth. Him, too, we slew, and after him we found no more orcs but gredbyg, the insect-clan I described before. They were easy enough to quell, and after them was what appeared to be the master of the hall- The Lost One, he is called. His appearance was too terrible to pen. The area was large and high-roofed, and green water was up to our knees. All about I saw worker-gredbyg, the smallest kind, but I was fiercely warned not to touch them else the armor be lost. I could not see the reasoning therein, but their earnestness was such that I believed them. We began the fight, some directly attacking the Lost One, some fleeing from the gredbyg so as not to harm them, and some beating back mushrooms that inexplicably grew from nothing to a huge size in the blink of an eye. Also, from time to time a small band of orcs would appear out of thin air. These things I attributed to trickery of the eyes by some foul craft, and after a while the Lost One lay dead. I acquired the coin from a chest-which is to be bartered for armor pieces- and my fellows and I exited the place.

Now, I must find a host of men willing to accompany me to face the Watcher, which I trust shall not be the easiest of tasks.

Now I know what Klyth was talking about.

Not much to report. I have acquired the gloves of the mysterious armor set, thanks to the aid of the famous burglar Neryssa, the minstrel Klyth Cross, and others. And Moria has been freed of not a few orcs for our efforts. All that remains for me now is to find a band that would take me into what is known as The Sixteenth Hall for the pauldrons. I have ventured a little in there before, and the place is overrun with globsnaga and terrible fungal filth. Then, I shall face The Watcher once and for all, may Oromë guide me.

I have been spending most of my time outside the mines in Lothlórien. I have found out that there are merchants who will exchange various trinkets for gold leaves and silver branches- these are rewards one receives from the completion of the Galadhrim’s tasks- and so have started to build up a store through civilian work. It is a most agreeable condition.

This place is so inexpressibly beautiful. No depiction by word or paint could let one see the majesty of the telain labyrinth of Caras Galadhon, or experience the wonder of roaming in the golden woods. But it is when I am all alone, in a secluded glade or along the banks of the Anduin, the stars shining bright over distant trees, that I think of Albrya. But my heart is not filled with longing, but peace, the most fulfilling peace I have felt since we lay together under the trees. I can almost feel her by me, holding my hand, telling me all is well. Whether this in truth is her presence I know not, but it is a unity I will miss when my journey continues and the last leaves of the mallorn-roof sink into the distance. It is a healing to all the hurts I have borne from Archet hither.

In Dwimordene, in Lórien
Seldom have walked the feet of men
Few mortal eyes have seen the light
That lies there ever, long and bright