Chapter Two
Gilraeth paused underneath a tall oak as dawn came to pass upon the third day of his trek. He'd been told it was a two day journey to Rivendell, straight east, and yet here it was three days since he'd set off from his house and he still had not emerged from the forest. It was a good thing he'd thought to bring extra food in case this happened. Gilraeth looked in his pack, taking out a flask of water and sipping it lightly. He took an apple from his pack, put the water away and shouldered his pack once more before starting off again.
While the journey had been somewhat adventurous in its own way, Gilraeth had often felt small stabs of loneliness, especially at night when he lay upon a soft spot of ground and stared up at the innumerable stars that twinkled and shone above him. He missed his mother, at least his mother before news of his father's death had reached them.
His father Gilraeth also longed for. While memories of Gomeir were faint and few, they still lingered there in his heart and always would. He missed the way his father would tuck him into bed at night, in the winter, drawing the covers tightly to his small body. Gilraeth missed the tales by firelight after supper, when they were all filled with good food and had all made themselves comfortable in the sitting room. Gynil would usually sew and listen subconsciously in her rocking chair, while Gomeir and Gilraeth would sit or lie upon the rug. Gomeir would mostly tell his son stories of Rivendell and of the Elves, but sometimes he told him of Halflings in the Shire, or of Ents in Fangorn. Always he portrayed the voices of the characters, making the story exciting for Gilraeth.
As he came back to reality, Gilraeth noticed he'd strayed from the original path to the east and had veered right, to the south.
"Maybe that's why I am still in this forest," he thought to himself as he righted his path. "Can't seem to even walk straight."
He finished his apple and tossed the core aside, licking his slightly sticky fingers. Suddenly, there was a rustle of foliage behind him and the boy whirled around, his brown eyes scanning all around him for any sign of life. For a few moments, there was silence, save for the singing of the songbirds. Gilraeth turned back around, shaking his head.
"Must be hearing things," he muttered as he adjusted his pack and continued walking. Yet shortly after, he heard more rustling, and what sounded like the great jaws of some animal working, chewing and grinding. A peculiar smell floated upon the air, and Gilraeth thought it faintly smelled of his apple he'd eaten earlier. He turned around again, and still nothing. He scanned the area for many minutes before turning and going off once more.
The sound came no more that day as Gilraeth trekked eastward. Sometimes he softly sang or hummed tunes he'd learned from early childhood to ease his loneliness. For most of the day, however, the boy was silent.
As the sun sank behind him, the sharp autumn air bit into Gilraeth's skin. He pulled out his cloak and wrapped it around him to ward off the chill, yet even that was not enough to keep him comfortably warm. He stopped to make camp as rain drops began falling from the darkened skies. Gilraeth shivered as his small hands worked to make a fire. The rain kept falling, faster and faster, until there was no hope at all of a fire.
Frustrated, Gilraeth threw his flint stone into his pack and tried to set up some sort of shelter from the rain. Yet every tactic he tried failed, and by the time he'd given up, Gilraeth was soaked to the skin, shivering in the bitter cold.
"This is it," he thought. "I'm going to die out here in the freezing rain, alone, in the dark, if the wolves don't eat me first. I almost wish I were home, even if it does mean facing my mother."
With that, Gilraeth lay down and closed his eyes for what he thought would be the last time.
Gilraeth paused underneath a tall oak as dawn came to pass upon the third day of his trek. He'd been told it was a two day journey to Rivendell, straight east, and yet here it was three days since he'd set off from his house and he still had not emerged from the forest. It was a good thing he'd thought to bring extra food in case this happened. Gilraeth looked in his pack, taking out a flask of water and sipping it lightly. He took an apple from his pack, put the water away and shouldered his pack once more before starting off again.
While the journey had been somewhat adventurous in its own way, Gilraeth had often felt small stabs of loneliness, especially at night when he lay upon a soft spot of ground and stared up at the innumerable stars that twinkled and shone above him. He missed his mother, at least his mother before news of his father's death had reached them.
His father Gilraeth also longed for. While memories of Gomeir were faint and few, they still lingered there in his heart and always would. He missed the way his father would tuck him into bed at night, in the winter, drawing the covers tightly to his small body. Gilraeth missed the tales by firelight after supper, when they were all filled with good food and had all made themselves comfortable in the sitting room. Gynil would usually sew and listen subconsciously in her rocking chair, while Gomeir and Gilraeth would sit or lie upon the rug. Gomeir would mostly tell his son stories of Rivendell and of the Elves, but sometimes he told him of Halflings in the Shire, or of Ents in Fangorn. Always he portrayed the voices of the characters, making the story exciting for Gilraeth.
As he came back to reality, Gilraeth noticed he'd strayed from the original path to the east and had veered right, to the south.
"Maybe that's why I am still in this forest," he thought to himself as he righted his path. "Can't seem to even walk straight."
He finished his apple and tossed the core aside, licking his slightly sticky fingers. Suddenly, there was a rustle of foliage behind him and the boy whirled around, his brown eyes scanning all around him for any sign of life. For a few moments, there was silence, save for the singing of the songbirds. Gilraeth turned back around, shaking his head.
"Must be hearing things," he muttered as he adjusted his pack and continued walking. Yet shortly after, he heard more rustling, and what sounded like the great jaws of some animal working, chewing and grinding. A peculiar smell floated upon the air, and Gilraeth thought it faintly smelled of his apple he'd eaten earlier. He turned around again, and still nothing. He scanned the area for many minutes before turning and going off once more.
The sound came no more that day as Gilraeth trekked eastward. Sometimes he softly sang or hummed tunes he'd learned from early childhood to ease his loneliness. For most of the day, however, the boy was silent.
As the sun sank behind him, the sharp autumn air bit into Gilraeth's skin. He pulled out his cloak and wrapped it around him to ward off the chill, yet even that was not enough to keep him comfortably warm. He stopped to make camp as rain drops began falling from the darkened skies. Gilraeth shivered as his small hands worked to make a fire. The rain kept falling, faster and faster, until there was no hope at all of a fire.
Frustrated, Gilraeth threw his flint stone into his pack and tried to set up some sort of shelter from the rain. Yet every tactic he tried failed, and by the time he'd given up, Gilraeth was soaked to the skin, shivering in the bitter cold.
"This is it," he thought. "I'm going to die out here in the freezing rain, alone, in the dark, if the wolves don't eat me first. I almost wish I were home, even if it does mean facing my mother."
With that, Gilraeth lay down and closed his eyes for what he thought would be the last time.