12 Nórui (June), Third Age 2662
The Vales of the Anduin are a place of quiet grandeur—golden meadows stretched wide beneath the shadows of the mountains, cut by the winding silver ribbon of the river itself. Here, long before the threat of Mordor stirred again, I sought the company of beings not shaped by speech or sword, but by claw, fur, and the silent strength of the wild.
It was the Beornings who first opened the path to this journey. In my youth, I had spent seasons among them, learning the patient rhythm of homesteading and the language of animals. But it was their deep reverence for the bears of the region that stirred my scholar’s heart. These were not mere beasts—they were kin, guardians, and sometimes legends.
With their blessing, I traveled northward along the Anduin, far from the larger homesteads, setting camp in a thicket of silver birch and watchful pine. There, each morning and evening, I observed from a respectful distance. Slowly, the shapes of the bears revealed themselves in full: brown and black, shaggy and immense, moving through the grass with a grace belying their size. Mothers herded cubs to the water’s edge. Young males challenged each other with playful bravado. Old giants dozed in the sun, their bellies rising and falling like the slow tides of the river.
In time, they came to tolerate me. I remained still when they drew near, offered no food, made no noise. They were curious, as all creatures are when not met with fear. One young bear in particular, whom I named Tarn, took to observing me in return. We would sit in silence, mere paces apart, listening to the river and the rustle of leaves. I sketched his movements, his posture, the way his ears twitched at every birdcall.
There were moments of alarm, too—an orc raiding party once crept through the woodlands, perhaps seeking passage across the river. I knew not to raise alarm with sound. Instead, I cast a mixture of dried herbs into the wind, a blend Radagast had taught me, pungent enough to repel scouts with sensitive noses. It worked that time. The bears scattered, but returned the next dawn.
I learned much in those weeks—not just about the bears, but about presence, about patience, and the fine line between guest and intruder in the world of the wild. My journal overflowed with observations, sketches, and theories. But the deeper gift was wordless: a silent trust formed between two worlds.
When the time came to leave, Tarn followed me for half a mile before turning back toward the riverbank. I paused, watching him disappear into the tall grass, the way the sun caught his fur and turned it to copper.
There are friendships that need no words. This was one.
I returned to the Beornings with my scrolls, my notes, and a heart full of awe. Among the bears of the Anduin, I had not just studied the wild—I had belonged to it, for a little while.