The Hunt (March 3010) - [Pelendir]
May 7, 2018 0:59:59 GMT -5
Post by Alagoniel on May 7, 2018 0:59:59 GMT -5
Dawn had not yet broken, though such marks of time meant little there in Imladris, for in the Last Homely House of Lord Elrond, sleep was something reserved for the lesser inhabitants. Those like Alagoniel, rangers displaced from their true home many long years ago, and more recently the small Halfling of greying hair that had taken up residence in Elrond’s company. It was therefore likely a wasted effort to hope that such early dawning hours would help hide her escape completely; yet, Alagoniel could not stay, and perhaps the elves would be more willing to let her go than those of her own kin.
Each day the confines of the room she had been given seemed to shrink; her spirit and her bones were restless. The winter this year had seemed longer. The cold that roared in had lingered well into March, the air making Goni’s back feel as if the claws of the wargs in the south were fresh within her nearly every day. She had not wanted the others to see her cry, though on occasion her pillows were dotted with the stains of those tears she could not fight back, the ones that fell when the pain was too great.
Laegion, her father, had been one of the rangers that had been sent to Minas Tirith to fetch her those months ago; Goni had thought seeing his familiar face would have been a balm to her wounded spirit. Still, those bright silver-blue eyes she had known as a child looked now more weighted in sorrow and pity than love. He was too afraid to touch her, unsure how she had been healing, and it seemed every few steps he had need to inquire how she was feeling. Each question burned Goni’s heart in flames as hot as dragon’s breath.
The walk north had been torturous, for the colder the air grew, the more Goni felt herself slow to spasms and shooting pains. She had hoped that seeing her mother and brothers when she got home would help, though it seemed at once her elder brother Ahadir began to urge her to settle back in the Angle, or there in Rivendell, and spoke of her days wandering as part of the rangers—those she had barely begun—in the past tense. Her mother, Othien, never offered word in objection, often asking Alagoniel to drop her sword training for a time, to settle and rest.
In many ways it was worse back with the elves and her family than it had been in the Warden’s Houses of Healing; there in Minas Tirith, Goni had at least been fresh and new, and there were no memories to haunt her as she laid upon the beds, skin healing in long, jagged red lines. Imladris had been a place of dreams and hope, her family the very blood that drove her to wish to walk the lands as a ranger; it was the place she had left those many months ago, determination in her breast and the confidence of youth in the lightness of her step.
To come back broken, tail between her legs like a dog; to be robbed of her purpose so young…
Quietly she pulled and secured her dark cloak over her shoulders. The air outside had warmed, and once more even Imladris in the north sought to return its earth to spring. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had called for the Dunedain to search for the creature Gollum at the same time Goni’s family and the healers began to call for her own return to a quiet life in the Angle.
This was her last chance. Alagoniel was not made for quiet, nor did she feel made for peace. She wished to help her people, to keep watch of the dark things that many of the world ignored. She had been born for this legacy, the one of lost kings and a displaced people. Wolves were not going to rob her of it, not after all the work she had done in training, and not when her life had barely started; she could not lose herself this early to a fate worse than death.
Quietly, the young woman bent and picked up her knapsack, tossing it over her shoulder. She would find this Gollum. She would show them all—and herself—that Alagoniel Dagnir Drauga was not going to simply roll over. Her brother was wrong. Her father and mother were wrong.
With a grim line upon her lip, she reached for her sword and secured the scabbard to her belt. Soon followed a dagger, a quiver of arrows, and a bow of dark-stained wood. Their weight felt familiar upon her, and Alagoniel sighed in the closest she had felt to contentment in nearly a year. Lastly, she swept into hand the map of Arda she had carried with her when she first stepped beyond the borders of Imladris, toward the south. Toward Ithilien.
A smear of brownish red painted the corner of the map, and Goni marked it with the cold eyes of a hurricane. Bree. She knew many of her kin passed through the land there. Surely she could pass unnoticed in the shadows and gather word of where those of the Dunedain had already stemmed their search.
She tossed her eye toward the window, marking the yet dark, velvet hue of the night sky. She would be gone before any of her family was wise to her plans, and perhaps she could move well enough to cover her tracks and prevent them from catching her too soon. With a long breath, Goni began to head for the door; she would be gone before the sun ever peeked into the valley.
Each day the confines of the room she had been given seemed to shrink; her spirit and her bones were restless. The winter this year had seemed longer. The cold that roared in had lingered well into March, the air making Goni’s back feel as if the claws of the wargs in the south were fresh within her nearly every day. She had not wanted the others to see her cry, though on occasion her pillows were dotted with the stains of those tears she could not fight back, the ones that fell when the pain was too great.
Laegion, her father, had been one of the rangers that had been sent to Minas Tirith to fetch her those months ago; Goni had thought seeing his familiar face would have been a balm to her wounded spirit. Still, those bright silver-blue eyes she had known as a child looked now more weighted in sorrow and pity than love. He was too afraid to touch her, unsure how she had been healing, and it seemed every few steps he had need to inquire how she was feeling. Each question burned Goni’s heart in flames as hot as dragon’s breath.
The walk north had been torturous, for the colder the air grew, the more Goni felt herself slow to spasms and shooting pains. She had hoped that seeing her mother and brothers when she got home would help, though it seemed at once her elder brother Ahadir began to urge her to settle back in the Angle, or there in Rivendell, and spoke of her days wandering as part of the rangers—those she had barely begun—in the past tense. Her mother, Othien, never offered word in objection, often asking Alagoniel to drop her sword training for a time, to settle and rest.
In many ways it was worse back with the elves and her family than it had been in the Warden’s Houses of Healing; there in Minas Tirith, Goni had at least been fresh and new, and there were no memories to haunt her as she laid upon the beds, skin healing in long, jagged red lines. Imladris had been a place of dreams and hope, her family the very blood that drove her to wish to walk the lands as a ranger; it was the place she had left those many months ago, determination in her breast and the confidence of youth in the lightness of her step.
To come back broken, tail between her legs like a dog; to be robbed of her purpose so young…
Quietly she pulled and secured her dark cloak over her shoulders. The air outside had warmed, and once more even Imladris in the north sought to return its earth to spring. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had called for the Dunedain to search for the creature Gollum at the same time Goni’s family and the healers began to call for her own return to a quiet life in the Angle.
This was her last chance. Alagoniel was not made for quiet, nor did she feel made for peace. She wished to help her people, to keep watch of the dark things that many of the world ignored. She had been born for this legacy, the one of lost kings and a displaced people. Wolves were not going to rob her of it, not after all the work she had done in training, and not when her life had barely started; she could not lose herself this early to a fate worse than death.
Quietly, the young woman bent and picked up her knapsack, tossing it over her shoulder. She would find this Gollum. She would show them all—and herself—that Alagoniel Dagnir Drauga was not going to simply roll over. Her brother was wrong. Her father and mother were wrong.
With a grim line upon her lip, she reached for her sword and secured the scabbard to her belt. Soon followed a dagger, a quiver of arrows, and a bow of dark-stained wood. Their weight felt familiar upon her, and Alagoniel sighed in the closest she had felt to contentment in nearly a year. Lastly, she swept into hand the map of Arda she had carried with her when she first stepped beyond the borders of Imladris, toward the south. Toward Ithilien.
A smear of brownish red painted the corner of the map, and Goni marked it with the cold eyes of a hurricane. Bree. She knew many of her kin passed through the land there. Surely she could pass unnoticed in the shadows and gather word of where those of the Dunedain had already stemmed their search.
She tossed her eye toward the window, marking the yet dark, velvet hue of the night sky. She would be gone before any of her family was wise to her plans, and perhaps she could move well enough to cover her tracks and prevent them from catching her too soon. With a long breath, Goni began to head for the door; she would be gone before the sun ever peeked into the valley.