Chapter 2 – The Attack
The stars were shining bright in the sky. Mortimir sighed, his breath creating a cloud of steam against the black night. He had never seen the sky so dark. But he had never been outside the walls of Minis Tirith at night, either. Mortimir clutched his satchel tightly, reflexively. He had never been so enveloped in darkness. And the stars seemed to call out to him, friendly, guiding him towards his destination. He wished he had brought his easel and paints with him. But that would have been too conspicuous, so he'd left them behind. Perhaps he would remember this night, and be able to paint it later, when he arrived at Rivendell.
Mortimir was one of, if not the best artists in all of Gondor. When he tired of writing poetry (Mortimir was one of, if not the best poets in all of Gondor) he would often sit precariously on a windswept precipice and draw landscapes in the sunset. One time, he saw an eagle flying overhead, and he sketched that eagle, and it won first prize in the Gondor Yearly Art Competition, which meant it would hang in his father's audience chamber for a whole year. He had been so happy. But when his father found out that he had won the competition, he grew angry and tore down the picture, and ripped it into little pieces, and set the pieces on fire, and then scattered them to the wind. That made Mortimir sad.
The shadow of Mirkwood Forest loomed ahead, imposing, and somehow blacker than the black night. Mortimir was only a few minutes away from the forest's edge now. He thought about setting up camp there for the night; he didn't know much about the forest, but he did know that his father was afraid of the elves that lived there, and wouldn't send his men anywhere near the forest. One time, when Mortimir was just a kid, a whole company of men disappeared into the forest while on a routine training mission, and Denethor didn't even think about sending any help. No one would talk to Mortimir about it, but he knew it was because the elves there were terribly cruel, and hated the men of Gondor, and there was no chance that the band of men had survived.
But Mortimir wasn't scared. He was different than other men of Gondor. He even looked different; instead of dark, grimy hair, he had brilliant and immaculate flame red locks that shone golden in the sun, and green eyes that rivaled the most precious jewels in Middle Earth. He always bathed regularly, and exfoliated daily. Even an elf could never guess that he was from Gondor. If her were captured, he would share in the elves' hate for his father. He would be safe in Mirkwood.
Mortimir reached the first growth of trees in only a few minutes, and began to set up camp. He was excited now, and didn't realize that he was not alone until it was too late. A sudden noise startled him, and he turned around, dressed only in his stewardly night robe, and came face to face with a gang of bloodthirsty orcs. He was too scared to scream, and his sword was too far away to reach.
An orc swiped at his face, sending him sprawling to the ground. The group moved forward, surrounding him.
Before he fainted, he thought he saw a shadow pass over the orcs, and as his eyes fell closed, he imagined he heard the sharp twang of arrows flying in his direction.
The stars were shining bright in the sky. Mortimir sighed, his breath creating a cloud of steam against the black night. He had never seen the sky so dark. But he had never been outside the walls of Minis Tirith at night, either. Mortimir clutched his satchel tightly, reflexively. He had never been so enveloped in darkness. And the stars seemed to call out to him, friendly, guiding him towards his destination. He wished he had brought his easel and paints with him. But that would have been too conspicuous, so he'd left them behind. Perhaps he would remember this night, and be able to paint it later, when he arrived at Rivendell.
Mortimir was one of, if not the best artists in all of Gondor. When he tired of writing poetry (Mortimir was one of, if not the best poets in all of Gondor) he would often sit precariously on a windswept precipice and draw landscapes in the sunset. One time, he saw an eagle flying overhead, and he sketched that eagle, and it won first prize in the Gondor Yearly Art Competition, which meant it would hang in his father's audience chamber for a whole year. He had been so happy. But when his father found out that he had won the competition, he grew angry and tore down the picture, and ripped it into little pieces, and set the pieces on fire, and then scattered them to the wind. That made Mortimir sad.
The shadow of Mirkwood Forest loomed ahead, imposing, and somehow blacker than the black night. Mortimir was only a few minutes away from the forest's edge now. He thought about setting up camp there for the night; he didn't know much about the forest, but he did know that his father was afraid of the elves that lived there, and wouldn't send his men anywhere near the forest. One time, when Mortimir was just a kid, a whole company of men disappeared into the forest while on a routine training mission, and Denethor didn't even think about sending any help. No one would talk to Mortimir about it, but he knew it was because the elves there were terribly cruel, and hated the men of Gondor, and there was no chance that the band of men had survived.
But Mortimir wasn't scared. He was different than other men of Gondor. He even looked different; instead of dark, grimy hair, he had brilliant and immaculate flame red locks that shone golden in the sun, and green eyes that rivaled the most precious jewels in Middle Earth. He always bathed regularly, and exfoliated daily. Even an elf could never guess that he was from Gondor. If her were captured, he would share in the elves' hate for his father. He would be safe in Mirkwood.
Mortimir reached the first growth of trees in only a few minutes, and began to set up camp. He was excited now, and didn't realize that he was not alone until it was too late. A sudden noise startled him, and he turned around, dressed only in his stewardly night robe, and came face to face with a gang of bloodthirsty orcs. He was too scared to scream, and his sword was too far away to reach.
An orc swiped at his face, sending him sprawling to the ground. The group moved forward, surrounding him.
Before he fainted, he thought he saw a shadow pass over the orcs, and as his eyes fell closed, he imagined he heard the sharp twang of arrows flying in his direction.