Chapter Twelve: Beaten Fugitive
I woke the men in the hours before dawn. They packed quickly and we set out before the sun had risen. I led them East away from Mithlond on a winding untraceable path. This trip to Imladris was different from my previous journey. Whereas before I had simply wandered in the general direction of the Homely House, now I was guided by the will of Uinen, I knew the way.
The hardest thing to get used to was how quickly the men tired. We had to stop frequently so they might rest and eat what sparse meals they could scrounge. I had not taken enough Lembas to last past the first week on the beach.
After many weeks we came to with a day's march of Rivendell. Dusk was gathering but we had not yet come to a place suitable for rest, so we continued walking.
We had come to a shallow stream when one of the younger men, Arthon was his name, spotted a dense thicket one hundred feet north of our current place. I agreed that this was the ideal place for us to spend the night and took them to it.
I sat alone beside the fire three hours later staring into the orange flames. Memories flooded my mind. Before long, my thoughts drifted back to my carefree days, before I collapsed initially.
I was about 200 years old when I first started wondering about my title 'Child Of Laughter' I went to Círdan and asked him why I had such a strange title. He sat on a chair, set on a raised platform at the end of the Great Hall. An Eldar, Nurfalas, lead me to him and I sat as his feet and asked,
"Lord, why am I called the Child of Laughter?"
Círdan looked at me for a long time before he answered. "When you were small," He said, choosing his words carefully "Your father was a serious Elf and a hard worker. Before you were born he would not express amusement in anything. But upon looking on your fair face, he lit up with smile, and henceforth named you Lhunrothien Araiavas."
"Who was my father to be so serious?" I asked
"That I will not say." Círdan replied, his tone preoccupied and concerned.
I questioned him further but to no avail, he was stubborn as rock at times. I left the hall and mentioned not my parents to him again.
I was jerked out of my wondering by a noise in the bushes to my left. I stood up and silently drew my knives, my feet making no noise as I stepped over the sleeping bodies of the men around me. I could hear Enhith stir gently in the trees above me and knew she wasn't the source of the noise. I came to the bush and quick as lighting reached in and pulled the visitor out by his hair, only to quickly release the badly beaten Elven child.
"Who are you and how have you come here?" I asked him in Elvish, lowering my knives, but not sheathing them.
"I am Carisil son of Dínthoron. I have escaped from Dunland where I was held captive for a great many years." The boy said, his Elvish choppy and broken. A tear ran down his bloody cheek. "I saw your fire and went to it, hoping it was one of my kin."
"Do not cry Carisil, you are safe among us." I responded, whipping the tear from his face, "But now I must ask you a very important question so listen carefully. When you fled Dunland, when you ran away, did the wild men come after you?"
Carisil kept his eyes downcast, his tangled blonde hair shaking in his grief. I knelt down and sheathing one of my knives I placed my hand on his slim shoulder.
"Carisil?" I asked my voice layered with concern at the pain he felt.
The boy looked up and catching my gaze he slowly, painfully, nodded his head.
I woke the men in the hours before dawn. They packed quickly and we set out before the sun had risen. I led them East away from Mithlond on a winding untraceable path. This trip to Imladris was different from my previous journey. Whereas before I had simply wandered in the general direction of the Homely House, now I was guided by the will of Uinen, I knew the way.
The hardest thing to get used to was how quickly the men tired. We had to stop frequently so they might rest and eat what sparse meals they could scrounge. I had not taken enough Lembas to last past the first week on the beach.
After many weeks we came to with a day's march of Rivendell. Dusk was gathering but we had not yet come to a place suitable for rest, so we continued walking.
We had come to a shallow stream when one of the younger men, Arthon was his name, spotted a dense thicket one hundred feet north of our current place. I agreed that this was the ideal place for us to spend the night and took them to it.
I sat alone beside the fire three hours later staring into the orange flames. Memories flooded my mind. Before long, my thoughts drifted back to my carefree days, before I collapsed initially.
I was about 200 years old when I first started wondering about my title 'Child Of Laughter' I went to Círdan and asked him why I had such a strange title. He sat on a chair, set on a raised platform at the end of the Great Hall. An Eldar, Nurfalas, lead me to him and I sat as his feet and asked,
"Lord, why am I called the Child of Laughter?"
Círdan looked at me for a long time before he answered. "When you were small," He said, choosing his words carefully "Your father was a serious Elf and a hard worker. Before you were born he would not express amusement in anything. But upon looking on your fair face, he lit up with smile, and henceforth named you Lhunrothien Araiavas."
"Who was my father to be so serious?" I asked
"That I will not say." Círdan replied, his tone preoccupied and concerned.
I questioned him further but to no avail, he was stubborn as rock at times. I left the hall and mentioned not my parents to him again.
I was jerked out of my wondering by a noise in the bushes to my left. I stood up and silently drew my knives, my feet making no noise as I stepped over the sleeping bodies of the men around me. I could hear Enhith stir gently in the trees above me and knew she wasn't the source of the noise. I came to the bush and quick as lighting reached in and pulled the visitor out by his hair, only to quickly release the badly beaten Elven child.
"Who are you and how have you come here?" I asked him in Elvish, lowering my knives, but not sheathing them.
"I am Carisil son of Dínthoron. I have escaped from Dunland where I was held captive for a great many years." The boy said, his Elvish choppy and broken. A tear ran down his bloody cheek. "I saw your fire and went to it, hoping it was one of my kin."
"Do not cry Carisil, you are safe among us." I responded, whipping the tear from his face, "But now I must ask you a very important question so listen carefully. When you fled Dunland, when you ran away, did the wild men come after you?"
Carisil kept his eyes downcast, his tangled blonde hair shaking in his grief. I knelt down and sheathing one of my knives I placed my hand on his slim shoulder.
"Carisil?" I asked my voice layered with concern at the pain he felt.
The boy looked up and catching my gaze he slowly, painfully, nodded his head.