I am Duivorin. Ranger of the Dúnedain, kin to the Dunlendings. At the request of the Ranger Council I am penning down my memories of Pedhaer, whom they finally realised is more than just a mercenary who joined the Dúnedain militias in search for a warm bed and some coin. Bloody fools, all of them. Yet I shall obey, because that is what old men do, is it not? Tell their tales to the next generation in the vain hope that they might learn something from it. I have chased out the youngsters as they hovered around me. I have no need for their disdainful looks as I cradle the Crebain skull. Regardless, I digress. What I know of Pedhaer. Where to start? Ah, yes. Of course. How I first met him. Strange how it is so much less long ago than one would think.

It was a cold and dark day, rain falling all around us, when we found the young man. We had seen the pillars of smoke rise from the forest and knew that Goblins had struck a caravan. I'll be the first to admit that our thoughts were not ones of rushing over in order to aid the poor victims. If it had been a trade caravan, we might luck out and find useful materials amidst the wreckage. Dunland is a poor land and normally the trades aren't weighed in our favour, but we have no choice but to acquiesce. We need the iron.

At best we'd gain a lot of things the tribes badly needed. At worst, we'd kill Goblins and make the border a little safer. Something had been riling them up over the past months and we had seen an increase in their number and aggressiveness. I had heard rumours of Khazad-Dûm being retaken, but I had dismissed those as hearsay.

We found the wreckage of the caravan easily enough. The Goblins and their hideous Wargs were still drunk on victory and not at all prepared for us. Beastslayers are fearsome foes and the fools the Goblins had assigned as sentries did not see them coming until their throats had been slit. The Wargs were no less useful, their sensitives noses clogged by the smell of blood, meat and smoke. We took them down with ease, but rather than rest on our laurels and go over the wreckage we first thoroughly combed out the forest, lest more Goblins lay in wait. I did not need to give orders for that, the men of Dunland know their foes well. If they picked up some of the Dwarven weaponry that lay scattered around, then so be it. The question of why such a large caravan had been passing through this area would have to be answered at a later date.

It was during that search that we found him. Holmath, one of the eldest amongst us who had traded much of his strength for experience and skill in walking the woods, heard the rasped breath of the heavily wounded man. His party followed him to the source and we found him amidst a circle of dead Goblins, half buried underneath the corpse of a particularly large Warg. He was still alive, but would not remain so if left unattended. Unable to come to a conclusion of what to do with him, they called for me and I was glad they did. A survivor might give me the answers I strongly desired. So we dug him out and brought him to our makeshift camp and I used most of our supplies to stop his bleeding and made sure that death would not claim him. In the meantime the rest of our warband went over what was left of the caravan. Aside retrieving countless of weapons of Dwarven make, we also took care of the dead. Pyres were made for the fallen Dwarves, but we left the foul Goblins and their Wargs where they were. Let their corpses be a warning for the rest of their despicable ilk.

We stayed there only for a day before beginning our return trek to the nearest Dunlending village. It would be slow going, as we were heavily burdened with weapons, mail and countless trinkets. I do not much enjoy the thought of looting the dead, but necessity trumps all. I also hid my ever increasing worry. When I had begun treating the young man something had felt off to me. It took me half a day before I finally discerned why. He was one of my own kin. I even recognised the birth mark that ran alongside his hip, for his father used to show it off as a sign that the kid was blessed.

It worried me and for a brief moment I considered letting him die after all. For if I had recognised him, would he not recognise me? In the end there were several reasons why I did not take that dreadful course of action. First and foremost: I am not a monster. I would not kill an innocent young man and he was still a member of my original tribe. Quite likely the last one. It would have shattered my heart to kill him, as if I were spitting on the memories of all those I once held dear. I had not been close to his parents, but that did not matter. If there was one thing I had learned over my many years amidst the Dunland folk, it was that you protected your tribe. Secondly, I had too many questions that needed answering. The man was dressed in Dwarven mail, clearly custom made for him, and was not wearing anything that marked him as a Dúnedain. He was also my only source of information in regards to the Dwarven caravan.

No, I needed him alive. And so I nursed him. He had lost a lot of blood, one of his arms had been broken and had it not been for his mail he would not have suffered bite marks on his broken arm, but his arm would have been gone instead. In short, he was in a bad shape and cut all over. I used up most of my gut stitching him back together. It took two days before he regained consciousness and when he did, he did so with alarming force. Not something I had expected from someone who had been at death's doorstep, but one look in his eyes told me all I had to know. There was a fire blazing within them.

Our conversation began in a typical ways, as far as such things go, and he asked me about the whereabouts of his friends. He was lucky it was I who had found him, as I could actually converse with him. I told him that he was the sole survivor and he took that about as well as one would expect. Only later on would I realise that the way he took it was common for a man of Dunland, a folk used to war and loss. At the time I had no idea that the pain that had made me all but an outcast amongst my kin was one he had gone through for the third time in his much younger life. He asked me what had happened to the bodies of his friends and I told him we had burned them, as was our custom. He seemed to take some relief in that.

I asked him in turn what he had been doing there, the caravan in general as well as his personal presence amongst them. I would have assumed he was some kind of mercenary guard had he not been wearing a Dwarven outfit. His voice was cold and without emotion as he answered me and so I came to know that Khazad-Dûm had been reclaimed after all. Now I knew why the Goblins had been so restless. It also explained why the caravan had come, for the Dwarves from all over were returning to the Mithril mines. I was glad for this news, for Dwarves had no love for Goblins and having one of their settlements close to our borders would mean that trade between our nations would improve. If one deigned to think of the Dunland tribes as a nation, at least.

I asked him for his name and he told me. Then he asked me for mine and I hesitated. In the end I only gave him my current name. Herothan. I prodded him for more information, succeeding with ease as his wounded state, both in body and in spirit, made him lethargic and he seemed to care not for what he divulged. So I learned that he had been with the Dwarves for several years, working as an apprentice. I was glad for the answer, as it meant he had no ties to the Dúnedain, but it left me wondering how he had survived the attack on the village, let alone how he had come to end up with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, for a child of his age could not have crossed such a vast distance unaided. I knew better than to ask. There was a small chance that he might recognise me for kin and I could not afford that.

I helped him up and walked him out of the tent, towards the campfire where a roast was being prepared. Wounded as he was, he needed to get some food into him. I was mulling over how I would explain his presence to my fellow tribesmen when he froze. I belatedly realised that when I mentioned we had burned the corpses of his friends, young Pedhaer had thought we had burned their equipment with them. Not, as hotblooded Doman was doing, parading around with it across the grounds.

Pedhaer left my shoulder immediately and made his way over to the tall Beastslayer. In hindsight I should have stopped him. The young man was unsteady on his feet and Doman was a Turchmen of great renown and skill in battle and apparently was carrying the axe that belonged to one of the Dwarves that Pedhaer had been close with. The conversations fell silent as he made his way over to Doman, visibly unsteady on his feet but his eyes radiating a fiery anger that gave me pause.

'Mine', he said in broken Dunlendish. It shocked us. We had known him to not be of our kin, so we had not expected him to be able to speak our tongue. 'Give back,' he demanded, pointing at the axe. Doman looked down at the young man, then at me. Then he roared with laughter and gave Pedhaer a solid shove. I expected him to fall. Doman towered above him and Pedhaer had only just escaped death. I had not expected him to remain standing, much less to witness him launch himself at Doman. The Turchmen was caught off guard and took a light blow to the forehead. Pedhaer made use of that to steal the axe from him and immediately backed off again.

He had angered the Turchmen, however, who felt that something that was rightfully his had been stolen and he kicked Pedhaer in the chest. The young man went down and the axe went flying and Doman went to retrieve it, thinking the situation dealt with. Nothing was further from the truth and Pedhaer, crawling back to his feet, threw himself at his opponent once more. This time Doman was ready, however, and he launched a vicious punch at the young man's head. Somehow Pedhaer wove around it, with skills that did not suit the way a man fought. The next thing I know I saw Doman staggering back, blood pouring from his nose as Pedhaer has rammed his forehead into it, something that reminded me of the way Dwarves fought. Then Doman swung his fist again and Pedhaer tried to dodge it, but be it exhaustion or because Doman was finally losing his patience, the blow partially connected and Pedhaer was spun around. Doman moved in intending to continue the beating, but Pedhaer fell back, narrowly avoiding the next blow and somehow retaliated and launched a punch of his own that hit him in the side. Doman coughed lightly, but was otherwise unaffected and began beating Pedhaer in earnest. I stepped in then. For one, I was convinced that had Pedhaer been in a proper condition to fight, that blow to the side would have incapacitated Doman for a good moment. For another, I understood why the fight had begun. And lastly, I did not take joy in seeing Doman, no matter how justified he might feel, beat down a man who should be laying down in bed.

So I pulled Doman back and only the respect for my longstanding contributions to the tribe kept him from attacking me as well. Instead he demanded an explanation and so I gave him one.

Dunlendings are often made out to be a savage people and to some extent, that is what they are. They are not, however, the uncultured beasts many of the Dúnedain make them out to be. They can be reasoned with and as I told them what young Pedhaer had told me, understanding grew. Doman, nursing his broken nose, even nodded respectfully at the prone form of Pedhaer as I explained that the axe they had fought over had belonged to his friend. Doman understood. The Turchmen are the most savage out of the Dunland tribes, but they understand these things and so Doman returned to Pedhaer as soon as he was awake, while I translated. Doman wanted to know why Pedhaer wanted the axe back and Pedhaer answered that he needed it to kill the Goblins that had killed his friends. When Doman told him that those Goblins were dead and asked him what he planned to do now, Pedhaer answered in a manner that befit no Dúnedain, but one that was custom for Dwarves and Turchmen alike.

'I will still need the axe, for a blood price must still be paid.'

And so, with a bit of mediation on my part, Pedhaer was welcomed in our tribe as an outsider, akin to a mercenary of some sorts. He would stay with us until he had repaid us for the value of the axe, the herbs used in his healing and the food he ate. The Turchmen welcomed this, for they respected his oath. The Hebog welcomed this, for they understood the value of having a man who had been trained by the Dwarves in the art of smithing. The Draigmen welcomed this, for they found the decision wise and fair.

And so young Pedhaer joined the Dunlendings, unaware that he was the second of the Dúnedain to do so. I shall end the story here, for my fingers are cramping up and the light of day is fading and reminiscing like this has my heart heavy and weary.

I am an old man, after all. Entitled to my rest.