Dear Dúrvenel,

Reniolind, alas, is dead. That brave Dúnedan was cut down by one of his own brethren, corrupted of spirit. The wickedness of the assault upon Eriador, it seems, knows no bounds.

The news of Reniolind’s fall was relayed to me by a ranger named by the Bree-folk Strider. He seems a sort of captain of the scattered remnant of Dúnedain remaining in old Cardolan. His mien is lordly, though his wear is worn, and my heart trusts that he, if any, can lead the defense of the west and avenge his kinsmen. For, alas, Reniolind is not the only of the rangers to have fallen, though certainly the most dear to my heart and to yours.

According to Strider, Reniolind was making a study, a pilgrimage of sorts, to the ancient ruins of Arnor still studding the fields of the Breeland. While I cannot fully discern his purpose in this quest, I have taken up his mantle and will see what virtue may come of such study. Thus far, I have found only continuing heartache. Near the ancient stones of Bronwe’s Folly, the once-cheery village of Archet has been scarred by fire and fighting. Brigands rule in many of these ruins, and the ancient fastnesses of the Midgewater are haunted by spiders and goblins.

The fall of brave Reniolind serves in my veins as a catalyst–I must not permit greater evil to diminish the men and hobbits of Bree. My pilgrimage may reveal naught, but at least I will dedicate some small portion of my strength to fighting with all my strength against the night. When you journey west, or I east, we will lift a glass to the memory and honor of valiant Reniolind.

Yours in Sorrow,

Dórenan

Dear Paladin,

I send grave news, and a caution for you and your kin. The threat of which we previously spoke, the brigand-driver called Sharkey, seems to have grown more powerful even than we feared. The hordes of ruffians fighting up the Greenway pose a severe threat to the Breeland, and I fear that the Shire may soon be beset from both Sarn Ford and the Bridge of Stonebows, that your neighbors name Brandywine. I stood with the wardens of Bree-town, repelling wave after wave of assault from out of Andrath, but I fear that it may be only a matter of time before the will of the brave Bree-folk falters. The cruelty of the invading rabble may be explained at least in part by their harsh visages, which betray orcish blood.

Brave wardens holding the line against ruffians in the Vale of Andrath

Other grave threats stir in the Bree-land as well. I learned, to my dismay, that my earlier warning went unheeded. The ranger Reniolind did not receive my missive, for he was slain by the corrupted shade of one of his kinsmen. I have seen this fallen ranger, along with dark spirits animating a long-dead dwarf and a wight that should, by rights, be lying peacefully in its barrow. Even worse, they are martialled by fell martials so dreadful that I cannot name them. Whether these dark lords are in league with Sharkey or a rival power I know not, but the danger they pose is real. Not since your kin fell in the valiant defense of Fornost, Norbury of the Kings, has Eriador faced such dread doom. I shall hold, for a time, in the Bree-land, doing my part to martial the strength of this ancient outpost. Still, I must admonish you to gather the fiercest of your kin to expel the invaders who have established a foothold in the Eastfarthing and to hold the secure the bounds along the Anduin. Should you require aid, send word to me at the sign of the Prancing Pony in Bree.

Yours in Concern,

Dórenan

Dear Dúrvenel,

I have chosen my path, though I could see it laid before my feet when last we walked together. The hobbits of the Shire have schooled me in patience, and now I will bide my time, seeking to combat the rising tide of evil before sailing. On the morrow, I will cross the Brandywine Bridge–the hobbit’s simple name for the ancient Bridge of Stonebows across the Baranduin–for the fourth time. I go east at the urging of the bounders and wardens of the Shire, and due to mine own worry.

Still, for this evening, at least, I am glad to enjoy the simple cheer of the Shire-folk. At the sign of the Golden Perch in Stock-town, just west of Stonebows, the dancing and feasting of the hobbits seems ceaseless. The cheery jug band and festive bunting are enough, for this night at least, to gladden my heart and steel me for the journey eastward.

At the sign of the Golden Perch

 Have you heard ought of one called “Sharkey?” My heart misgives that this whispered menace, who drives fear into men from Rohan to the Shire, may be a powerful adversary. I go east once more, not least to investigate this threat. The thought that our long vigil on the Lhûn may have been for nought, that some foul sorceror of Angmar has crept into the very heart of the free folk, this notion I cannot abide. I must seek protect the carefree lives of the children of the West before I set sail. I understand you better today, brother, than I have for centuries. Hold fast to your vigil, and together we shall arm and lend aid to the defenders of the free!

Yours in confidence,

Dórenan

Dear Reniolind,

I hope that your watch upon the Bree-Land goes well. I have delayed my sailing, and I seek to send you and your kindred words of warning against a rising fear. Allow me to begin by recounting a disquieting conversation I overheard on my northward journey as winter thawed into spring. I was still several leagues south of the Gap of Rohan, travelling with a small band of human refugees seeking their fortunes in the north. Two of the company caused me unease, as they were ill-aspected and secretive. I overheard mention of one Sharkey, who one of the travellers intimated would be displeased by valiant efforts to defend the refugees. This mention raised a warning in my blood, but I cast it from my mind once we were rid of these two brigands. When we spoke in Bree-town, I thought nothing of the encounter… any threat it posed seemed far to the south.

Imagine, then, my surprise when a gentleman farmer of the Shire told me once more of a Sharkey. This brave hobbit, Gerebert Took–I believe you are familiar with the Tooks by reputation, at least, if not by acquaintance–took it upon himself to investigate some of the outlaw men who have recently taken to banditry in the Eastfarthing. It seems that the stolen wagon of pipe-weed in which he stowed away took a very long journey to somewhere near a tower, and he descriped espying one Sharkey, a robed man whom the bandits seemed to fear. The blood ran icy in my veins when I heard this, a freezing beyond the normal terror of a villain with sway from Rohan to the Shire. Something beyond reason in my heart fears this Sharkey and what threat he might pose. That he goes about robed, rather than sporting armor, and that he frightens other men leads me to suspect he may be a sinister priest or sorceror out of Angmar or Umbar, abroad seeking to spread mischief and strife.

I know not whether these same bandits are causing trouble in the Bree-land, but if all remains quiet, than I believe it is merely a matter of time before this Sharkey begins causing more trouble. I have shared my worries with the Thain and with the Bounders–the hobbit-folk have named me “Bounders-Friend” for my aid against the brigands–but my heart still rests uneasily. Thus, my warning to you and the other rangers to be on your guard for mischief from one named Sharkey. My errand to the Shire is not yet complete, but I am contemplating a journey eastward once more to lend what aid I can against this menace. I hope that our next meeting will be under auspicious circumstances.

Yours Sincerely,

Dórenan

Dear Erchiel,

I thought up a new riddle today, and, knowing how fond you are of this ancient game, I thought I must share:

A town tumbling down, mired in dreck,
Small residents sit in the wreck.
Vittles fly from their plates,
While outside larger mates,
Who make meals of flies, have no neck.

Having so recently passed through, I can imagine that this will give you little challenge, though I at least hope that it brightens your day if, beyond all reasonable hope, this letter reaches you. You see, while supping today at the Ivy Bush, the same honourable inn where you and I encountered one another, I heard tales of terrible creatures within the Barandalf. According to my sources–and they certainly had more than their share of the pub’s fine brew, so perhaps it was just talk–the Bounders have pulled back from the banks of the Baranduin, as it is now too dangerous to venture so far beyond Dwaling. I hope that, whatever perils may greet you there or in your northward journey, you remain safe and well.

I appreciate your encouragement in my exercise in patience, though today sorely tried mine. The day-long thunderstorm in the Shire was oddly chilly for this time of year. I do not envy you, for I remember well the way the wind and the thunder would roll of those northern hills. It was cold enough in the weather, performing menial chores, running pies and mail, and aiding the worthy Ponto Hopsbloom in his preparation for the Four Farthings Brew-moot. One of the more vicious denizens of the Frogmoor left me wallowing in an icy pond while gathering frog-hops, and with the continuing storm, I was hard pressed to warm myself.

A rainy day in the Frogmoor

Recover, though, I did, with the aid of Ponto’s well-crafted brew, the great fire in that drafty, dripping roadhouse, and the pleasant company of Ponto and his customers. I do not know whether you have visited the Floating Log, but despite its appearances, I would heartily recommend its comforts for your return journey. Though the village has the appearance of a collection of driftwood, carried by the currents from the White Downs to the shallows of the adjoining swamp, and though the roadhouse itself is, perhaps, the most dilapidated of the lot, the inhabitants here stand out even among their kin as fun-loving and high-spirited. Milo Hornblower–a distant relation of Holly, for whom I am retrieving spoilt pies–is raising a particularly large and wretched toad, whom he has named Lobelia after some third-cousin or somesuch whose birthday approaches. I could hardly contain my mirth as he recounted his plan, explaining carefully that he chose this toad for its similarity in appearance and demeanor to Missus Sackville-Baggins, for he himself looked so much like a toad with comically short arms that could not meet in front of his belly.

At the Sign of the Floating Log

I am so pleased to be out of the storm now, and I sincerely hope that you and your companions found shelter. I will send this by Quick Post to Oatbarton, and I sincerely hope that some other brave soul will carry it northward to you. Tell me if you hear word of Longbough, and keep a keen ear out for new riddles in your travels.

Dear Aggie,

I have decided to linger, for a bit longer, at least. I came to visit you in Derndelf, and you can imagine my disappointment when your brother explained you were out on a hunting trip. I cannot complain of his hospitality, of course–he made me feel very welcome and shared some of his superior roast lamb as well a delicious bold stout that you yourself brewed. It was a pleasure visiting with him, and we had a most enlightening conversation.

While your brother remains confident that your hunting expedition has taken you no father than the woods of the Southfarthing, I fell I must warn you that I have seen evidence myself of dangers encroaching on the quiet woods and lanes of the Shire. Rumors of fears followed me up the Greenway last season, and the goblin and wolf hordes of the Blue Mountains have been made all the more fearsome by the treachery of the Dourhand dwarves. I understand your love of the wild, and I would not ask that you cage yourself in Derndelf any more than I should seek my own imprisonment within walls of stone or earth. Still, I must caution you that now may not be the right time for your forays into the wild.

I have joined up with the Bounders, and Shirriff Smallburrow taught me a most entertaining song and dance. I am very disappointed that I missed the opportunity to share with you my newfound talent for halfling revelry! Thus far, my efforts on behalf of the Bounders seem primarily to deal with aiding the quick post and helping in preparations for the Four Farthings Brewing-moot. Have you considered entering? That stout was a blue-ribbon brew if ever I have tasted one!

I have also found myself retrieving pies made from spoilt berries by the admirable, if rather distracted, Holly Hornblower. It seems as though the young hobbit lass ranting in Michel Delving about the undue requisition of quality pie-fillings might have had a point. Perhaps I will head back to the Town Hole to discuss this with her in greater depth.

Dear Longbough,

With the passing of most of the Third Age since last we met, I have little hope that you remain in the now-desolate hills of Nennuial. Still, Fangorn has had no word, and I cannot help but hope that somehow Erchiel will succeed in reaching you. It was by the happiest coincidence that I encountered Erchiel in a rather small alehouse and inn named The Ivy Bush. Erchiel was headed norh, off of the East-West road, to the lands where last we met. I, on the other hand, was spending the night after taking instruction of the most severe nature. Still, it was wonderful to laugh and reminisce once more with Erchiel, and I fondly hope the journey proves fruitful.

As to my lessons, you will recall when I once would swim the Lhûn and walk with you in the ragged hills. When I grew weary of chattering with the squirrels or comparing shady corners, you chastised me–arguing that I lacked patience, calling me hasty. I do not dispute your diagnosis: through the intervening age in Edhellond, with the men of Dol Amroth, and on my long journey north, I dedicated myself to pursuit of the immediate, and patience was never a virtue I cultivated. It has been my return to Eriador, though, that has allowed me to begin to see the importance of patience. Working to aid the Longbeards and the little folk has taught me that greater patience can help me serve those in need, out of compassion and charity.

But as to my severe instruction. The hobbits of the Shire are good folk, but they are hopelessly enchanted with their small doings. In my attempt to shield the innocent from the encircling terrors, I have joined the Bounders, an organization of march wardens, though the Shirelings see us more as errand-boys to whom they delegate the tasks they simply would prefer not to undertake themselves. Chief among these, so far, has been the delivery and distribution of the Quick Post, the hobbit mail service through which they ceaselessly send one another letters abuot something very near to nothing at all.

Dórenan carrying the mail

Some of the hobbits are so nosey as to stop passers-by throughout the Shire, demanding to know whether the stranger bears a letter for them, and, for good measure, just which of their neighbors or kin in another village are receiving mail. At one point, as I was sharing a narrow path with a rather oblivious cow, I was chased by a hobbit so nosey that he wore boots, rather than the Shire-standard bare feet, as he ran to try to catch me. Thrice today I had the inclination to pitch the mailbag into the Water, and perhaps a nosey hobbit or two along with. I keep admonishing myself that your advice, of course, is sound, and that I can strengthen my character and will by learning to master my hastiness. The Shirelings have been, if nothing else, excellent tutors in patience. Already I understand them better, their love of earthy homes and hearty food and company. Perhaps with this increasingly-shared love will come greater patience.

I have heard that dark things have moved once more into the hills of Evendim. Whether these tales are true, I know not, but I rather doubt that I shall ever again meet you under leaf or sky, and I believe I am the poorer for this. I hope that your long search has proven fruitful at least, and Erchiel finds you in the blossom of happiness.

Yours Truly,

Dórenan

 To a fish…

Dórenan and a large fish, sunning itself in the shallows above Needlehole

Flee, my fine finny friend!

Fly fleetly, for from far,

Fern Furfoot approaches

fast, fishing rod in fist.

Fondly she fixates on

fresh fried filet of fish.

Dear Endressa,

Ever and again, you are recalled to me. The way the moon glinted over the dwarf stronghold of Gondamon last night was just the way that he shone when we chased fireflies in the summer. The radiant pink blossoms of Duillond this morning were no less fair than the blooms adorning your hair. Most vividly, though, I felt your presence at our old lookout, when a younger maiden who looked like an echo of your youth stopped by. How does this middle earth hold so much memory without overflowing? Yet, perhaps, it is the overflowing of memory that leaves me so heartily missing your smile.

That morning you fell, I was weaving you a wreath of tigerlily fronds. When I heard your surprised cry, my thought was that you had discovered me at work. When Dúrvenan told me of your calamity, I was beside myself. For what lingered of that autumn, my tears supplemented the flow of the Lhûn. I am grateful that there were no tigerlily fronds showing their shoots yesterday.

I cannot bring myself to sail west today. I hold to the thought that it is my growing compassion, my dedication to charity that keeps me bound to this mortal shore, yet, unbidden, the notion returns that I might be motivated by fear. Fear that, when I reach that blessed shore, you will not be there waiting to greet me.

Now, before this letter is even more tear-stained, I commend it to another reminder of you on this voyage of reminiscence. I cast the letter into the water. A tributary cascade falls to the Lhûn near Duillond, and its glistening flow recall the locks of your fair hair. The tumbling droplets recall your own fall into this great water.

Should the flowing Lhûn carry this, beyond time, reason, and hope, into your waiting hands, remember me fondly. And, when finally I sail, I pray that you will greet me with your smile and laughter that I have so missed.

All my love,

Dórenan

Dear Dúrvenel,

I cannot do it. Your words come back to me, even now, within a day’s journey of the harbour. My labours to aid our kindred in Falathlorn and Dwalin’s faithful dwarves have stirred in me the sense of compassion and charity of which you spoke. How can I leave them to face the long darkness without lending at least a bit more of my aid? I understand now, too well, why you linger to arm the forces of light.

Perhaps my most memorable efforts have been to aid the dwarves of Noglond–fine chaps, not at all like the despicable Dourhands we met so long ago at Edhelion. At their request, I set forth to give battle to the goblin horde that has taken occupancy of the old ruins of Orodost. Keeping to the shadows, I carefully crept from balcony to alcove, ambushing the wicked goblins with my javelin. This practice of careful concealment and stealth may mean that I can rival even you, hiding in the sylvan shadows of the West. The admirable spirit of these dwarves, who bestowed upon me the title “Guardian of Ered Luin” for my efforts, keeps the passage safe from Thorin’s Hall to Falathlorn. Their friendship has fostered the sense of compassion and charity of which I earlier wrote.

As I told you when last we spoke, my plan was to revisit the haunts of our youth before continuing to Lindon. Seeing the homes of our past returning to nature was bittersweet, but one visit–my final visit–stands out beyond the others. After leaving the brave dwarves of Noglond, I set forth eastward. Ahh, how the land has changed, grown darker. It was as I ran through Emyn Hoedh, very near its barrow-mounds, that I was assailed by the dead. Of course the shades of men do not effect me as they do mortals, but I was unprepared for the level of grief and anguish I felt in seeing these heroes of old, having their well-earned rest disturbed to be used as ghastly marionnettes for an evil animating force. I destroyed but a few, then fled down the path that I still know well, even after all these years.

Weeping for the shades of men who should be resting in their haudh, my feet nonetheless carried me swiftly to my final destination–our old lookout on the Lhûn, known today in the common tongue as the Wardspire. As I stared out over the ruined city taken by Angmar so long ago, I was visited by another manner of ghost, this one less expected and more terrible than the shades of men.

Dorenan and an elf-maid at the Lhûn lookout

As I stood, silently watching and letting my tears fall into the Lhûn far below, an elf-maid ran up. She was of our kindred from Mirkwood, but she looked so stunningly like our beloved Endressa that I scarce thought she was real. Even down to the scarlet-orange cape and reticent smile, this sylvan beauty seemed a reflection of Endressa. I hailed her, and she tried to cheer me with her soft smile, but we did not speak. There was no need. We stood, she and I, together watching out at the ruins far across the water in the hills of Evendim, watching the Lhûn carry ever more memories to the sea.

Perhaps my tour through these ruins of old has given me some small portion of the wisdom of our forebears. My plan to flee westward while I still have such strength of arm and while evil still stretches its tendrils seems now folly. My heart yearns still for the sea, but watching the flow of water and of years at the Lhûn reminds me that I need not rush West. Whether it is some insight gained through my careful hunting at Orodost or perhaps some blossoming wisdom within, I recognize that I must school myself in patience. Círdan waits, still, for Master Elrond and others, and I need not hurry Westward. I will go, practice the lessons of charity and compassion that I have learned from the longbeards, and hope to learn better the patience that is required to help turn the tide. I believe that no one can teach me quite as much about patience as our friends in the Shire.

Take care, my brother. I will speak to you at least once more before I take ship.

Yours,

Dórenan