Figures could be seen trotting side by side silently along the hidden pathways of the woods. It had been a long journey, but something drove them southwards from their home in the northern eaves of the Greenwood. They had avoided most of the patrols of the northern kingdom of Thranduil, feeling no allegiance to their distant kin. Their people, the dark elves, have always kept themselves apart preferring to live alone in caves or in very small groups that traveled often, hunting.
Though they lived a solitary life as most dark elves of their kind, something drove them southward. At first neither had told of the other of dreams each had. But both had like mind, as their parents had once commented. Eventually both decided to take the journey to unknown paths southward.
Both were clad in leather dyed green and brown, matching their surroundings. Though they carried bows, it was unstrung for the moment and slung behind their backs. The taller of the two had his long dark hair tied back, while the younger had his dark tresses flowing freely, shoulder length.
“Brother, do we continue this path long?” asked the younger of the two, it was near dusk. They stopped eventually near a stream and refilled their waterskins.
“This is no longer familiar woodland, Galain,” said Gorath, the younger after awhile.
“Have I ever told you, brother, that you talk to much for an elf?” Chided his older brother, smiling slightly. “Let us rest here tonight, I weary of your chatter.”
Gorath raised his brow slightly at the light banter of his older sibling. He let his gaze absorb their surroundings. Westward he saw through elven eyes, a marsh or field that was filled with yellow irises. He had heard of the place – Leog Ningloron in their tongue, the Gladden Fields. They began their scant meal of nuts, berries and some dried meat. Tomorrow they would hunt and forage once more as they continued their journey.
“Something-“ Gorath was cut off by a sudden cracking of twigs. They both turned towards the sound, reaching for their hunting knives.
An elf stood near an elm. He was clad similarly as they, and they recognized him as another of their kin. He too was dark-haired and grey-eyed. A bejeweled hunting knife was sheathed at his thigh, his bow was strung but he made no move to attack them. He watched them closely, leaning on the trunk of the tree. It was his eyes, they could see, that betrayed his alertness.
“I would know your line and purpose. Not many of our kind travel in haste in this part of Mirkwood, “the elf spoke to them quietly after a long moment.
“Who might you be, dark elf, to ask us such?” Replied Galain in answer.
“I am Rûdhchamion, and my kin once lived here,” came the amused answer.
“Are you not the son of Brilgonion?”
The dark elf chuckled and revealed himself in the fading light of dusk. Only those of his kin would know he was the striking resemblance of his father, as his sister was that of their mother.
“Aye, that I am Galain of the North, my father’s sister’s son,” he smiled slightly. “ It is a rare thing to see one’s kin so far away from their abode.”
Gorath’s eyes widened in recognition. It had been ages! The brothers had only been a few summers old when Rûdhchamion had met them at the northern part of Anduin. They had hunted together, and their older cousin had taught them how to fish using their bows and arrows, and patiently guided them at tracking down large game.
They soon made camp and began their tales. Rûdhchamion was heading south he told them, to visit an old friend he had not seen for a long while. They told him of their restlessness and their dreams. He listened to their tales silently.
“We travel the same roads for now, perhaps the purpose shall be revealed soon. An urgency drives me as well southward,” their older cousin said thoughtfully.
With that they rested quietly and decided to resume their journey southward in the morning.
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