Galdorion

It was four days after Galdorion's strange dream and things in the real world was going even worse.

Carmacil, Turyamir and Galdorion together with eleven others were the only survivors of the company of 38 strong Malledhrim company. These were particularly battle proven veterans except Galdorion, each of them were true ''snaphaners'' in hunting. Their hands were relentless and minds were unforgiving. 

Nocking an arrow and trying to calm himself down, Galdorion crawled out from the mud and looked at the forest. He and his companions heard a crack coming from at least fifty paces away and considering the situation that they are in, they had every right to be concerned.

Not two days ago orcs had produced an unexpected flanking move which proved disastrous. Their camp was discovered and torn, forced the elves to retreat back to the lines closing to the shore and caused many casualties. Among them the captain Andalad.

   I feel as though there is a fog inside my head, and I am suffocated by it. The captain is explaining at great length about the dangers of sending more after the missing scouts, but I barely understand the words he says. The light touch at my arm becomes almost supporting – my friend and mentor, who insisted on accompanying me, gives me a concerned look that I do not register.

“Rainith, if something happened to him, would you do the same? Would you go after him?”

     Company is resting deep in the forest in a chilling afternoon in September, Mirkwood.

     It was Galdorion's eighth day in the patrol. He did end up here despite the ruling of his own house and traditions, and even the tears of his beloved Rainith. The latter had more devastating an effect  then he could ever imagine, but in his mind what he was doing was righteous.

     “Again.”
I grimace, pulling back to stand ready, my sword held out before me. My tormentor grins at me unrepentantly, arms folded across his chest.

Galdorion is gone from the river-bank almost as quickly as he arrives, eagerly seeking out another opportunity to advance himself here. Normally his enthusiasm is infectious, but this afternoon I simply stand where I am and watch him leave, guiltily fingering the letter still concealed in my pocket. If Galdorion received anything from the party that brought this letter he has not mentioned it – unless he has seen Lord Tyelepoma, he may not even know about the news it brings.

  Young Galdorion could not believe his ears and then dramatically turned to his friend, who he brought the news to him.

Shafts of sunlight slant through the canopy above, winking in and out as the wind stirs the leaves into new patterns. The wood is filled with light: it glances off the rippling water to either side, casting glimmering reflections back across the surface. Somewhere among the trees a bird sings, undisturbed by the silent movements of the sentries I know patrol nearby. But for them, this land would almost seem untouched by the troubles outside its borders. There is peace here – yet all are aware that it is hard-fought, and hard-won.

I stand on the edge of the circle of firelight, looking out into the night. The hunter has already left, vanishing into the gloom, and as Lady Athlidhrael turns back to the gathering behind us there is a moment when the whole night seems to stretch emptily before me. The slight breeze lifts my hair, sending strands of it dancing across my face. Without the encircling mountains of Rivendell, the carpet of stars above seems almost endless. I remember previous journeys here: riding at night, moving like a shadow among these mournful lands.