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The Sun beat down on the glorious green grass, and Éomeléo thought it good. This day was going swimmingly. "Ha ha!" he laughed, and hopped and skipped and pranced over the country. Valesseka's medicinal knowledge had proved apt and he was fully healed from the hornets' stings. For a change, Éomeléo had woken up bright and early, and he had been trying to move away from the Arnorian as quickly as he could. "A fine start I have on her; next time she sees me I will be showered in riches!"
Unexpectedly, his backpack fell off, propelling the handle of his sword to jut into his shoulder. "However did that happen?" he muttered, as he turned around to see the rogue carrier lying poorly on the ground. He lifted it and noticed that one of the straps had snapped.
He could not tie it up without the aid of something else, and he decided against this course of action. He thought it might be best to sew it, but in his haste to leave Gondor he had failed to foresee the need of such useful gear. Still, if he could only find something sharp, he might be able to perform the most rudimentary of sew-jobs.
He sauntered over to a group of trees, slightly southwards and about half a mile away. He had noted a few birds flying about the branches. Up he climbed and on the first tree he found a nest, and a finely-crafted nest at that. The birds were gone, scattering at the sight of Éomeléo's blue outfit glinting in the Sun. He grabbed the nest and clambered back down.
Picking a few of the sharpest twigs out of the sides of the nest, Éomeléo was able to utilise them as needles, sticking them through the straps of his backpack. The strap was now a bit shorter than the other one, but it was still suitable to wear. Éomeléo also used the feathers he found in and around the tree (there were plenty) to support the twigs, twisting the feathers around the ends of the twigs and tying them in knots.
The backpack was fairly shaky, but it held; and Éomeléo continued his journey westwards. The birds in the trees watched him leave, their beady eyes awash with fury: no doubt plotting their revenge. Éomeléo, blissfully unaware, strode on cheerfully.
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