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Fungrim sighed and took another draught from his mug. This was exactly where he did'nt want the conversation to go. His banishment from the ancestral hold of his kin was like a wound he had carried for years, keeping him in hurt and threatening to drive him crazy. Talking about it was too painfull.. or was it?.
He was supprised to realize that it did'nt hurt quite so much anymore, and if he was honest with himself, somewhat dissapointed, sad even.
Yet he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the wound was begining to heal. He had adapted to a lonely life in the wilds, and of late he had started to care less and less about his past.
He tried to tell himself that he should be happy, that he could turn a new page, start a new life. And yet, all the things he had loved and cared about, his family, his life in the hold surrounded by his kin, was sinking into the swamp of oblivion. He found that he could'nt even remember his father properly. All that was left was a dull echo of old memories, like a shadow reflected onto the wall of a cave, disstorted and unreal.
At that moment, he disscovered that he was indeed an exile. All vague hopes he had harboured of one day returning to his family were splintered.
"No, Indy. I have no family."
"Did they die?" the girl asked, her small voice filled with sympathy.
Saddly, Fungrim shook his head.
"To them, I am dead."
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Herein, it is said, the power of Ulmo was shown. For he gathered tidings of all that passed in Beleriand, and every stream that flowed from Middle-earth to the Great Sea was to him a messenger, both to and fro
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