Written in broad, flowing script with expert penmanship.
Only the trees will remember.
Only the trees and the rocks and the roots; the creeks and the streams and the hidden glades.
Who else will remember the Shadowfoot?
My time on the earth now draws to a close; the twilight of my life is almost ended, and night fast approaches. Each day the ancestors call to me a little more loudly, beckoning me to join them. Soon my body will feed the beasts and the birds and the roots of trees that were ancient when I was young, and my spirit will find peace among my ancestors in the Sacred Grove, becoming one with the hearts of the mighty trees planted by the first tribes in an age long past.
When I am gone, what will remain of the Shadowfoot’s time in this world?
Ah, but I’ve forgotten Orn.
My nephew…he has always been touched by the spirits, of that I am certain. He has a noble soul, and is respectful of all he meets; his father would be proud to see how he has grown.
I fear that when I am gone, the Shadowfoot will go with me. The Men of Hathwick have been most gracious, and I’ve no doubt of their sincere acceptance of Orn and myself, but still…if only the boy had more time among his own people, more time to learn our ways before that life was ripped away from us. I’ve done my best to teach him, and he has been an earnest pupil, but I fear that, through no fault of his own, he will let the Shadowfoot fade from memory. He has a good life among the Men, and why should he want to change that?
And maybe that is as it should be…the cycle is ever in motion, greater than the wistful musings of a venerable elf.
I just hope Orn keeps the spirits in his heart after I am gone.