3 Sulimé of the Year 3019 of the Third Age
I am undone by this terrible night. Dread and the wind bend me to despair, along with the rest of the men. I am justly terrified. Never in my life have I felt the true blade of the enemy's greatest weapon; fear. And now, in the blackened shadow of this tower of my Forefather's, I prepare myself for what must be a gruesome yet glorious death, according to my brother, Clannae. But he cannot see. He has been in many a battle, many a raid and an enemy's spear has he braved. The only weapon I have ever wielded was my quill and tongue. Yet neither will save me from the inevitable.
My mother weeps in the caves. In my head, I can still hear her calling my name. I am the youngest of her eight boys. Only my sister and mother now have a chance to live. My three older brothers followed Eomer son of Eomund and nephew of the Lord of the Mark, King Théoden. The rest of her sons must fight for Rohan here on this tower, as our father had, bravely and selflessly.
Yet I am no soldier. I have never brandished a sword in my entire life span. I was taught by our Priests how to read and write, a gift only given to those of high birth or going into the work of the temple. Yet they took me in and bid me to keep a record of these times. My mother was so proud of me, her scribe son. I taught my sister to write as well.
The King stands by himself now. I saw him at the highest point of this citadel, staring out into the approaching night. It gave me strength. The stranger that came to Edoras, not more than a few days time ago, saw me watching my king. He spoke to me of bravery, and courage. Courage is not the absence of fear, he had said, just knowing that what I'm fighting for is worth my life. This stranger, Lord Aragorn, speaks truth.
My mother and sister are who I fight for. I must keep thinking that. They are the only ones that I do this for. I would have my hands cut off by an orc blade and never be able to write again, than for those slaughterers outside the wall to lay a finger on either of them.
My sister's husband fights beside me. My sister and I are twins, and her spouse is the same age as we are. Seventeen years. She is expecting her first child when the summer comes, so I fight for more than just my mother and sister. I fight for my nephew or niece. I fight so they may have a future. I fight so they may see the light of a winter moon, spilling across the fields like milk from a mare. I fight so that they may feel the wind, coming from the east. I fight so that they may hear the songs of our elders, so they may feel the wonder of the words, and hold them in their hearts. I fight for life.
Oh, Queen of Heaven, keep my feet steady and my blade strong for as long as this fortress stands. And when they break through, may my mother's death be swift and sister's end merciful. I also beseech you that we may leave a memory, a reminder for men to come. That they may know that Rohan did end, yet it ended with such grandeur that it was ground into the stone of this mountain.
Never let the world forget the Horse and the Rider.
I remain yours, Penath son of Penar of the Rohirrim