Letters to my Brother Pt. 4

Arad,

You tell me sorry news.  I am sorry for Avorthal, though I have not met him.  And I equally feel sorry for his father.  No man deserves to lose his only son and not know where he lies.  Funny, but such a scenario is familiar to me somehow.

So, you have met Senrathalion?  I confess, I do not know the other one, but before father and your mother met, I spent some time around his family when I resided in Mirkwood before you were born.  Believe it or not, I learnt to wield a sword at his and his father’s tutoring.

And runes?  You mock me, or worse.  Surely you remember the last time I played with such things?  Nearly burnt my eyebrows off.  No, I shall keep by my sword.  And whilst you’re taken to making jokes about my ability with them, don’t forget: I always beat you in a fight.  In the same way, I’ll continue to cut down these cursed wolves.

Speaking of which, their attacks have increased in number tenfold since my last letter.  Many of the other farmers are hiring guards or warriors of certain forms to look after their sheep and fields.  Father, in his natural state of stubbornness, have refused to do any such thing.  His cursed mistake.

Last week, he was out in the fields harvesting, when a couple of the massive beasts (or at least larger than usual) came out at him.  Father is old—or at least older among our people—and he has considerable skill with the sword.  Still, my late mother always used to say about him, “Arrogance plus stubbornness will get him killed one day.”  Thankfully, she was not wholly right.  I only saw the latter part of the instance, and depending upon whom you ask, I might have saved his life.  The wolves were more vicious this time, and one succeeded in tackling him.  I held my bow straight and let the arrow pierce its eye.  I shall not elaborate further, but let it be said father did not escape entirely unscathed.

 

That cut could have been made with a jagged blade … tore up the skin horribly.  Were it not for your mother’s healing prowess, it might have become infected.  Speaking of her, she thinks bad-luck has cursed our family, and you’re the catalyst.  Whenever something bad happens, however serious it may be, she’ll say, “Since Arad ran off …” or something of the like.  I believe that father has forgiven you, and the only offence I ever took to you was the harm you did to him.  But mother … well, it will be a while before she quiets down, and knowing women, some amount of time will pass before she truly forgives you.

On that lovely note, I shall finish this letter.  By the time of your next letter I shall be on my way to Bree, so expect mine late.  Despite your mother’s aforementioned healing ability, father is still not healing properly, or at least in time.  The harvest is coming, and he is unable to help, so I must get either an extremely talented healer, or some farm help in that city of halflings and men.  Who knows, you may see me post my next letter from Bree.

Your brother,

Dullathaen