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((((((((((((((o Chapter 5 o)))))))))))))))))
December 8th, 3018
It seems that the Valar have turned the winds—and everything else, for that matter—against me. Athenos remains lost, and I grow weary without him. At least Gilandor is still by my side, or else I would have starved to death days ago.
I've witnessed the company of men twice since I first saw them kill the warg. They have horses. Strong, large, and well-bred horses unlike the elven-steeds we have at home. The men themselves are strange as well. They are tall and gruff, with long yellow hair and rough faces. I've never seen the likes of any creature like them. I've been very careful to stay out of their sight, for they do not seem to be very civilized. They argue at night—I can hear them very clearly—and drink thick ale from tall glasses until they fall right over. It is really quite the spectacle.
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Ithildor crouched amongst the tall grass beyond the light of the fire—the Rohan man's fire, as he had learned they were called. It had become his nightly ritual to spy on the strange beings from afar—they roused his interest greatly, even though he was afraid of them.
He had heard of the land of Rohan from his teachers. From what they said, it was a rough, rock-scarred country filled with horses and their masters. The Rohirrim had a great hall built somewhere in this barren land, but Ithildor was unsure of it's whereabouts, nor was he keen to visit it. For now he was content with eavesdropping on the small collection of riders in front of them.
"This warg's meat is foul." One of them complained. "Why did we kill that animal?"
"Better to eat foul meat than to starve." Replied another.
A third man added: "Wargs are evil, and it is in our best interest to kill them, even if we do not mean to keep the meat afterward. Did you not hear what's happened in the towns to the north?"
"Yes, I have." The first one answered quickly. "Wargs and orcs attacking and murdering townsfolk everywhere."
Ithildor blinked and listened harder. This had been the first he'd heard the men gossip about orcs as well as wargs. He moved closer.
"What has the King done about all this?" Another piped in.
The Third man threw down his food and shook his head. "There are some that say that Theoden is under an evil spell. The Golden Hall has fallen into ruin, and the skies above Edoras have darkened."
Ithildor nodded to himself and backed away into the grass once more. He'd heard all he'd wanted for tonight.
Orcs…he thought excitedly. Orcs attacking towns in northern Rohan! So it is true. Sauron's armies are spreading everywhere.
The elven prince moved further away from the Rohirrim, until he could no longer be seen by the light of their large fire. He stood in the darkness and watched and listened for a while longer, but the men had changed their topic of choice once again, and he was no longer interested. He took the short walk back to his hidden camp, where Gilandor greeted him with a screech.
"Hello, mellon nin." He replied, collapsing on the ground. The bird fluttered down to him and sat on his chest. Ithildor laughed. "Gilandor, stop playing."
The movement of the young prince's laughter jostled the hawk, and he was more than happy to hop off onto the ground. Ithildor turned on his side to face him.
"I have to get some sleep now." He said, more to himself than to his pet. "So be silent."
Gilandor ruffled his feathers and sprung up into a branch of the nearest tree. As Ithildor has asked, he made no other sound.
Ithildor lay down, his head full of what the Rohan men had said. Wargs and orc attacking the northern towns. Interesting.
As he searched for a peaceful place in his mind to slumber, Ithildor also pondered what an adventure it would be to be a warrior in times like these—to be called to aid the people when Sauron's armies attacked, and being victorious.
Ithildor frowned. Then again, he wasn't a warrior. And even so, his father was always pressing the fact that a warrior's life was not as glamorous as it was often assumed to be.
But can I believe that? Ithildor thought. Father has fought many battles. He's never been greatly injured. How would he know then? What if he's just saying that to discourage me?
Ithildor groaned and flopped over to face the other side. He wasn't about to let what his father said stop him. That was, after all, the very reason he'd left Mirkwood in the first place.
I have to stop thinking like I'm still under someone's authority. He urged. I am my own ruler now. I make the decisions. I'm not going to waste my life playing by Father's rules.
Ithildor's thoughts finally fell silent. Now he felt content. Now he decided to head north, to see what the Rohirrim had been talking about. If he happened to come across some orcs…then he'd fight them. Orcs were stupid and less threatening than wargs, anyway.
Slowly Ithildor fell into sleep. The whistle of the wind formed an ancient lullaby that consumed him. The night closed in, and the stars flickered out, devoured by the void of darkness.
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Ithildor dreamt. It was a strange thing because he rarely had dreams, and certainly not ones a vivid as this.
He was standing inside the Palace courtyard, back home in Mirkwood. Beside him was his mother's grave. And kneeling in the dirt facing the gravestone, was Legolas Greenleaf, his Father.
Ithildor barely recognized him. He wasn't dressed in his usual attire. What he was wearing looked like it hadn't been washed in months. His father, a Prince of Mirkwood, was dressed as a lowly peasant. A ratty pair of leggings covered his legs, and he had no boots. On top there was nothing more than a torn, sleeveless tunic.
Ithildor stepped back, alarmed. Through the holes in the abused fabric he could see scars. Many, many long, dark gashes on his father's skin.
"Ada?" Ithildor asked quietly, but Legolas didn't seem to hear him. Ithildor looked again, and noticed something more.
His father sat with his arms held weakly outstretched towards the gravestone. He was weeping, his tears staining the dirt below him. Ithildor looked at the grave of his mother and felt like weeping himself.
There was no name carved into the stone. It was his mother's grave, yet her name was absent. Ithildor was horrified. What had happened? Who had defaced his mother's memorial? A great anger boiled up inside him, but then suddenly his father moved.
The elder prince reached to his side and grasped a large stone that sat in the soil not far away. He reached toward the gravestone once again, as Ithildor watched with growing fascination.
Prince Legolas rested a pointed tip of the stone on the surface of the untouched marble. Then the muscles in his strong arm tightened and Ithildor saw a long, white scar appear on the stone.
"Ada!" Ithildor shouted again, but once more his Father ignored him. He continued to mark the stone with his hand. It didn't take Ithildor long to realize that he was writing something—but it was not his mother's name.
It started with an 'E'.
((((((((((((((((((o Personal thing o))))))))))))))))
Sorry again for the long update. I've slowly began to realize I'm losing interest in this story. But I've managed to crawl on the computer and write another chapter. I hope to carry on and finish, hopefully before I go to college. Please keep reviews coming. It really helps. Thank you!