We were late. That was all Glorfindel said as we reached the burned remnants of what once was a proud Dúnedain village. We had responded to the smoke billowing forth from the thick forest with all haste, driving our steeds through the thicket with all the speed they could muster. And we found only death, desolation and a handful of Orcs that were going through what little that remained. I knew of this village. I had visited before, on several occasion. The Dúnedain and the Men who lived here were noble and stalwart. Well aware of the danger that the proximity of the Misty Mountains brought. They never failed to have sentries out. Further out than most of them deemed necessary. To find them like this, surprised, slaughtered... I weep for them. They were good folk and saved many lives. We dispatched of what few Orcs we found and we argued with Glorfindel about giving chase. Most of us were in favour, others against. Orcs were hard to track, even slowed down with loot and any force strong enough to demolish a settlement this large would require us to stay together as well. In the end we decided against it and Glorfindel went ahead with the mainstay of our party. A handful of us stayed behind to burn the dead. It was then, after lifting up a pile of timber, that I spotted him. A young boy, no older than a year or eight, crushed under the rubble, but very much alive, if heavily injured. I remember noticing the long knife in his hand, his small fingers clenched around it, stubbornly refusing to let go even as I picked him up and carried to him Langwen, who was the most adept in healing arts amongst us. Despite our small number we still chose to stay put. We set out our own sentry, in case any Orcs returned.

They did not and over the next weeks we slowly nursed the young boy back to health. He was lucky, although it may sound like a cruel thing to say about a child who just lost his family and friends, but his body took exceptionally well to the treatment. I originally believed that it was perhaps a desire for vengeance that drove him to heal faster than normal. As he came back to his senses, however, that proved to not be the case. He was quiet and didn't speak much. After asking us who we were and thanking us for healing him, he asked if there were other survivors. It ached my heart to see him ask the question without hope. He had already known the answer. It was only through black luck that he had survived it. It was easy to tell he was Dúnedain, for even at his young age he showed signs of being educated well, including a sparse knowledge of Quenya in which he introduced himself to us.. We were all worried at his polite tone and how much he retreated within himself, but we knew not what to do. Devedir played the harp and I did the same with the flute while Langwen sang and he just sat there still, looking at us intently for a brief while before his eyes wandered to the piles of ashes that had been the bodies of his family only a short time ago.

In the end we departed the dreadful place, as soon as we judged the young Pedhaer fit for travel. We set on the road and hoped to find another Dúnedain encampment for long. Death was common to those brave men and it was all too often that children were orphaned and raised by others from their community. It was much more rare, however, for an entire village to be wiped off the map. The young boy overhead us discussing this and suddenly became full of life. He was adamant to not be left behind. He insisted on going along with us, to give him a chance to repay our kindness and whatever we had expended to nurse him back to health. I considered refusing, but the others overruled me. I relented to their arguments. It was the first time we had seen the boy show emotion and especially Langwen worried what might happen if we were to refuse him. So he came along with us to Mithlond. On the way there we taught him a variety of things, as he slowly grew more used to us and began opening up. Never did he tell us about his family and we didn't dare inquire, but I could see a fire burning within his eyes. Slowly, carefully hidden, but the smouldering was ever present, as if it was carefully nurtured. He took to the tasks with an enthusiasm I have rarely seen and one that affected all of our moods. He ignored our pleas to take it easy, to be more careful with his still frail body and drove us to the edge of our patience as he continuously ignored our calls for him to rest as he took care of every minor task we put in front of him. It was simultaneously endearing and slightly annoying, but I guess this is simply how human children are. By the time we reached Mithlond he had grown fairly adept at moving through the woods silently and all of us, even our steeds, had taken a liking to the boy.

In the city his presence was greeted with curiosity, but nobody minded his presence. Human and Dwarven merchants plied their trade there often enough and sometimes brought their children with them as well. The young boy didn't seem to care much for the splendour of the city, instead focusing firmly on the tasks we gave him, as if he were worried we'd chase him out if he did not fulfil them to perfection. And so we spent the next several years with him as he grew fast and quick. He never grew out of his silent habits, however, eagerly responding when spoken to, but rarely starting a conversation of his own accord. What free time he had he spent roaming the city and we quickly received word of the training grounds that he had found a way into the building and was watching the soldiers train from the shadows. Nobody dared point out his hiding place. Not long after that we found practising with a wooden sword, with which he trained day and night. First on his own, later with me, while Langwen took it upon herself to teach him the basics of the healing arts. Devedir took him through the city as well, at times, as he went to haggle with merchants or help the shipbuilders and their crew. Other times he accompanied the three of us to the Hall of Manwe, where he listened in. Not that he understood much Sindarin, but he tried and slowly improved.

After a few years had passed, we tried to bring up the idea of him returning to a human settlement once again. The child tried to maintain a neutral facade, but his eyes could not hide how much the thought of leaving us frightened him. He would acquiesce us if we had insisted on it and though we all deemed it wiser for him to return to his own kinsmen, we kept delaying it, month after month, until the months became years. In that time, young Pedhaer trained, learned and grew.

It was in the eight year that disaster struck. Langwen and Devedir had gone out on a ship, as mariners, chasing after the rumours of Corsair slavers. Sadly enough the rumours would turn out to be true and in the ensuing battle both Langwen and Denevir died. It broke his heart and mine. They had been my companions for centuries and their loss broke something within me. I could no longer bare to live here and began making preparations for my journey to Valinor. Pedhaer, who was no less devastated by the news than I was, saw me prepare and knew that he could not come with. We talked deep into the night. He told me that if I left, he did not wish to stay in Mithlond either. He was not able to voice his reasoning,, but he did not need to. I understood. After eight years, I finally understood the child in front of me. He had never wanted to leave us because everything around him would have been too familiar, too reminiscent of what he had lost. Now, Mithlond was about to become such a place as well. I did not fault him for it. He was still a child. In the end we came to an agreement and visited the market. I explained his situation with some Dwarven merchants who were in good standing and they took pity on the young Pedhaer. We came to an agreement swiftly. Pedhaer would stay with them as an apprentice. He would have to work hard, but he would have a home. I heard many good things about Dwarven hospitality. I can only hope that the tales are true.

I bade him farewell a few days later. It was emotional and laden and he surprised me by reciting the age old farewell in perfect Quenya, not only to me, but to Langwen and Denevir as well. I tried to, as I had tried in the days before, to have him accept at least a few of my gifts. A sword, a bow, a purse of coin, but he would have none of it. He defended his refusal by saying that he could lose anything I gave him, but the memories of his times with us would live on in his heart forever. I had nothing to counter him with and so said my final goodbyes.

As I now wait for my ship to arrive, I decided to compile a memoir of my short time with Pedhaer. I feel that history is not yet done with him and should he ever wish to return to Mithlond or to the Dúnedain, then I have arranged for these notes to be sent along with him. For he is Pedhaer, son of Argonui. Friend of the Elves. Mára valto Pedhaer. May the light of Elbereth ever illuminate your path.