[Orual]

Anson breathed deeply the air of Rivendell, feeling refreshed already. "People of Eriador; Men, Hobbits, Elves. You are the company set out to find what may be our last hope against this disease. Come in, rest for one night. Great peril awaits you, and a long way. But on your way into Fangorn, Rivendell´s power shall help you. Follow me, my friends. Follow."

There was no argument whatever, and Anson felt keenly the aching muscles in his legs. He saw that his companions were equally weary, if not more so. They were led to bathing rooms, where they all soaked in warm water until the grime and dust of their long journey was washed away. Then they put on fresh clothes and went to their beds.

The room was spacious and clean-aired, but somehow Anson did not feel comfortable. He dug into his pack and found a paper card that his children had made for him, with all of their signatures and a note wishing him the best of luck written by Della. Tears stung his eyes. Curse and blast this plague, and whatever caused it! Anson gently fingered the card, then reverently placed it in his pack and drew the blankets over him. It would be a long day tomorrow, and he should be rested.

There was no howl of wolves tonight, but the silence was oppressive and offered no distractions for Anson's loneliness. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the soft sound of breathing in rooms by his, but it was no help. He buried his head in his pillow and tried not to think, and eventually a troubled sleep overtook him.