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((((((((((((((o Chapter 4 o)))))))))))))))))))

December 1st, 3018

Well, I've been a free elf for a brief while now. Athenos bore me safely and soundly to the southern edge of Mirkwood, and Gilandor was close behind. Valar bless them, for they are my only friends now.

I must admit that I'm a little uneasy. In my haste I forgot a map and now I have no idea where I could go. But I must keep moving. By now Grandfather must have noticed my leaving and is setting up search parties everywhere. But they won't reach this area until a few days have past, and by then I will be long gone.

I have been living well, though the life of a lone elf in the wilderness is considerably different from my former occupation. Gilandor and I go hunting, and he has brought back enough food to feed us both, with plenty left over. I haven't seen a single evil thing. Not a warg nor a giant spider nor an orc.

I wonder if any word has reached Ada yet. Valar only knows if he has already set out upon this quest to destroy The Ring. I hope he hasn't received any message. I don't want him to worry about me.

Ithildor

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Ithildor walked gingerly among the crisp, green grasses and breathed in the wonderful smell of trees. He was enjoying himself.

Athenos was grazing nearby, pressing his hooves into the dirt. Ithildor approached the horse and stroked it's mane. He took another deep breath. What wonderful, glorious air! He could finally breath out here, without the thick palace walls surrounding him, choking him. Out here everything looked and tasted and smelled of freedom, and the young elf couldn't get enough of it.

The Prince had set up a small camp in an isolated grove of trees half a mile away from the edge of Mirkwood forest. He didn't need to ask himself why he preferred the trees to the grassland surrounding it—he saw the trees as a sort of comfort. The grassland around him both excited and frightened him. He'd never seen lands and skies so vast in his entire life.

Athenos shifted and winnied, nearly stepping on Ithildor's foot.

"Careful, boy!" He scolded softly, stepping away and back towards his makeshift camp.

Ithildor frowned and looked at his spared foot. The thought had occurred to him that if he was injured in any way while he was out here, he would have to make a choice: Try and tend the wound himself or go back home. Ithildor had taken classes in medicine and herbs from the palace's healer, but he only knew how to identify and prepare certain plants for a limited amount of ailments. If anything more serious happened to him, he would have no one to help, and no one to turn to.

Ithildor shook his head. What was he thinking? Surely he would remain healthy and uninjured. He'd always been careful, and nothing out here looked particularly threatening.

Suddenly Athenos whinnied and stomped his hoof loudly against the ground. Ithildor looked up and observed the horse, wondering what was wrong. Athenos began to scamper around nervously, and his ears folded back aggressively. He whinnied again.

Ithildor rushed to the camp and fetched the horses's bridle. Athenos was obviously sensing something he was not. Could it be his Grandfather's searching party? Could they have gotten here so soon? The young elf heard a screech from above and looked up to see Gilandor retreating into the higher branches of the trees above their camp.

"What is it?" He wondered aloud as he turned back into the field. Athenos was still pacing, more nervous than ever.

Ithildor's heart leapt into his throat. The animals would not be acting so strangely if it was simply a troop of elves approaching. This had to be a predator.

The thought occurred to him all too late. Ithildor looked up and saw a large brown shape creeping slowly through the longer grass.

"Warg," He whispered, and as if on cue the large animal burst out of grass, it's huge mouth gaping and white teeth gleaming. It headed straight for Athenos.

Ithildor stood at the edge of his encampment, terrified, frozen in place. He'd never seen a warg before. His father's and grandfather's descriptions of this monster did not do it justice. It was terrible. It was deadly and…

Ithildor was shook out of his thoughts when he heard a terrifying roar rip out of the creature's throat. He could have sworn he felt his very heart stop with the sound. The young elf looked again and saw Athenos galloping at full speed in the opposite direction—and breathed a sigh of relief. The warg followed a short distance, but then fell back, panting. Athenos was safe.

But I'm not…Ithildor realized. The beast turned and locked it's beady, black eyes on the prince. It charged and it's roar filled the clearing.

Ithildor did nothing. What could he do? Without a horse to use as a mount, and alone for that matter, he had no chance against the beast. The thought shot through him as if an arrow of realization had pierced his flesh.

Suddenly Ithildor saw the warg stumble. The huge animal wailed a cry of pain and then suddenly toppled over, crushing the dirt and plants beneath it. Only then did Ithildor notice the spear stuck deeply in it's side.

His fear growing, and his heart beating frantically, Ithildor didn't even think to move. The warg was not dead, but where did the spear come from? He got his answer in a the form of loud, triumphant voices shouting over the field, heading towards him. They were not elven, for they spoke in a tongue Ithildor didn't immediately recognize.

A group of six or seven men entered the clearing, rushing towards the fallen creature. Ithildor took one look at them and knew they were hunters. Various knives and daggers hung from large leather belts, and their boots were stained with mud and filth. Their hair was dark, and Ithildor paused to regard it for a moment, as none of the elves he knew possessed such a feature. The men approached further, and Ithildor's curiosity slowly melted into bafflement, and then fear.

What are men doing so close to Mirkwood? What are they doing here? He thought. Then he realized: What if they see me?

The young elf quickly knelt and gathered his few belongings. Then with a powerful spring of his legs, he leapt into the trees above him, just as the men reached the dying warg.

Gilandor screeched beside him, and Ithildor glared at the bird. But the men on the ground were too preoccupied to notice. As Ithildor watched, they circled the beast, none of them daring to step in close and deliver the killing blow or remove the spear. The warg itself groaned pitifully, and Ithildor almost felt sorry for the creature that had desired to kill him.

Finally, one of the men braved being bitten in the leg and stepped inside the circle toward the warg. He pulled a huge, broad-bladed sword from his belt and raised it ceremoniously above the warg's fur-covered neck. The creature did not groan nor wail, but stayed silent, as if it knew it's death was coming and it was a comfort.

Ithildor watched with wide eyes as the sword plunged into the flesh of the warg. He heard the juicy crunch of the muscle and sinew being ripped apart inside, and the blood vessels broken. The warg's titanic jaws opened impossibly wide as if it would scream, but instead of sound, a torrent of bright, hot blood poured out of it's mouth.

Ithildor gaped in awe. He'd never seen so much blood before. He'd never seen a killing so brutal—but that was not which fascinated him. It was the fact that he'd never seen a human before.

They were able to bring the beast down when I could not…Ithildor thought in shame. Men…humans who were supposedly weaker than elves. And yet they so easily bring down a creature like a warg.

Ithildor looked down thirteen feet to the ground, which now seemed so much farther away. Is this true? Is the days of elves truly fading and giving way to the days of men?

Ithildor pondered as long as the men were on the ground beneath him. They stayed much longer than he thought they would. They did not feel content with dragging their kill back to whatever camp they had set up, so Ithildor watched with growing disgust as they gutted and quartered the carcass right there and then. It was nearly nightfall when they had gone, and Ithildor felt secure enough to come down from his perch.

He was worried about Athenos. Where could his horse have gone to? Ithildor knew that Athenos would come if he called, but he was still afraid that the men might hear him and come to investigate.

Ithildor approached the place where the men had cut up the warg. The ground was stained black with blood, and the pile of organs and entrails sat, still steaming, in the light of the moon. Ithildor covered his nose and retreated back to his little knot of trees. The smell was revolting to his elven senses.

Gilandor fluttered down onto his shoulder as he approached. Ithildor ignored the bird's talons digging into his shoulders as he bent down to once again pick up his sack of belongings. He'd have to continue moving on, and look for Athenos on the way. If he didn't, there was still a chance that his Grandfather's soldiers could find him. Besides, he would not be content to stay here…not after what he'd just witnessed.

The young elf set off in the dark. He headed southwest, in the direction that Athenos had traveled. He kept a sharp eye for anything moving, whether it be animal or elf or human. He didn't want to be interrupted by any of those things.

Halfway through the night he came across a set of hoof prints in the mud next to a stream. Ithildor observed them and determined that they could be the prints of Athenos. But on the other side of the stream grew very thick, very tall grass, which provided no path or hoof prints. He could not find anything.

Ithildor made camp close to the stream that night, in case Athenos would return. But the young elven prince had a terrible feeling that his horse was gone for good. He'd not studied very hard in the art of tracking. His father has always scolded him for that.

"Why should I learn a skill you will obviously never let me put to use?" Ithildor had often retorted.

"Because I am your father, and I know better than anyone that seemingly useless skills will become of the utmost importance in a moments notice, Ithildor." His father had always said.

Ithildor sighed and laid out flat on the ground. He stared up at the stars, and at the moon, who caressed him with a gentle kiss of white light. The long grass at the other side of the stream was swaying like dancers in the breeze, whispering. They whispered with eerie voices and songs that were mere ghosts of themselves.

Ithildor drew in a shaky breath. He wouldn't get any sleep tonight. Not with that sound in his ears.

(((((((((((((((((o Personal Thing o)))))))))))))))))))

Sorry, sorry, sorry! It's really short, but I've been really lazy, and really involved with…everything. Can't do anything anymore. Hate it. But at least I got one more chapter done. Please review, even though you're probably steaming mad at me for taking so long! Reviews always, always, always motivate me to write more! Thanks guys, and I love you, and I'm sorry for taking so damn long again and I promise that I'll try to clean up my act in the future!

Roseblade