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Ravennar
Ravennar felt moved by Heather's speech. He sensed in it the anxiety of one that fears lest the things that one loves should be forgotten, yet not for the sake of oneself, but because they are things much too fair to pass unmourned into oblivion. He shook his head and said:
"True, tales wiil always be remembered. Thousand of years from now, maybe, one will sit by the fire listening to ancient lays, or discern in the yellowed pages of a book the days of yore, and be moved to laughter, or to tears by the tale of our times. But will it be believed, I wonder? Will it not be considered only a figment- fair, it is true,- of other people's imagination? Not oblivion worries me, but disbelief. Think, Heather, could you bear the thought of people talking of elves, or of King Elessar, or...or even of the Green Dragon, as if they had been only an untrue story? Could you bear the thought that there will come a time when those that fought and died in the Great War will no longer be shown reverence and gratitude?"
Ravennar fell silent. He looked arround him. The night was wearing on, he could see that, and soon he would have to be on the road again. Yet, where was his road? And how could he get there in time? He looked at Heather, pondering if he could trust her. But this could be his last chance, and he had to take it.
"I have to leave at daybreak." he told Heather. "Yet I am in difficulty and this may turn ill, not only for me, but for others also. Could...could you not help me?"
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