Author's notes: This story was mostly created by me, but I could not
have figured out where to take it without the help of my good friend,
Figwit O'Rivendell, better known as Figgy, Figs, Figmeister, Figgly-Wiggly,
or anything else you can make out of the word Fig. =) I luff you,
Figgeraloo!!!! *glomptackleroll*
Prologue
Gilraeth watched his father, Gomeir, walk down the road, away from his home. His mother, Gynil, stood with her son, tears in her eyes as she watched her husband leaving. Along with his other war gear, Gomeir carried his most prized possession (as far as inanimate objects go), his sword, Darnithmil. It was an Elven sword, though Gilraeth was never quite sure of that. But he was young, merely eight years old, and so he had not handled a sword as of yet.
For now, he watched as Gomeir disappeared around the bend in the road, his brown eyes shimmering with un-spilled tears. He knew where his father was going, but he did not know if he would ever return. Though Gomeir had told him to be brave, he found it very difficult to do so as he and his mother turned to go back inside the house.
For many months, there were rumors of the war, but no information specific on who perished in battle or who was wounded or missing. Gilraeth and Gynil adjusted to life without Gomeir, though with much difficulty. Gynil had always left the raising of Gilraeth to Gomeir, who was an outstanding father. Now she was not sure of what to do with the young, inquisitive, endlessly-hungry boy. With some time, though, she got used to doing things with him that Gomeir would usually do instead. Gilraeth showed her how to fish, and Gynil taught him a few simple recipes.
They lived this way for nearly a year, and though Gomeir was no longer their center thoughts, the father and husband was never forgotten. Every day, both mother and son took a few moments to pray for his safety in the battlefield and for a swift return home. Both eagerly awaited his homecoming.
But that hope of his return flickered and died one gloomy day in November. The skies were gray, and the lands were shrouded in a thick mist. As Gilraeth, now nine, ran down the road back home after fetching some ingredients for Gynil, he could not see that the door was already open until he was nearly to it. This was strange, for Gilraeth knew his mother never left the front door open. With caution, he entered, his brown eyes wide and slightly fearful.
"Mother?" he called, his voice trembling a little as he closed the door behind him. There was no sound at first, but then there came the sound of soft weeping from Gynil's bedroom. Gilraeth laid the food items on the table and quietly went to the room, peeking through a crack in the door, which was somewhat ajar. He saw his mother sprawled upon the bed, her face hidden in the covers, sobbing bitterly. Gilraeth entered the room and silently sat beside her.
"Mother?" he whispered.
After a moment, Gynil sat upright, wiping her eyes, sniffling. As she looked at her son, Gilraeth saw the pain and anguish within her hazel eyes. His own brimmed with tears. He had never seen his mother cry before.
Gynil enveloped her son in a tight embrace, beginning the tears anew. Confused yet empathetic, Gilraeth did not utter a sound, even when the embrace became uncomfortable. Yet he did not have to wait long to be released. He looked at his mother again.
"What's the matter, mother?"
Gynil swallowed the lump in her throat, looking Gilraeth in the eye. "Gilraeth." She paused. This was too heartbreaking, but he needed to know. She inhaled deeply and began again.
"Gilraeth. The captain of your father's army came by today and he - he said that Gomeir was -"
Gilraeth's brow furrowed, his mouth slightly agape. He already knew what his mother was going to say before she finished.
"He was killed in battle, Gilraeth."
Gynil dissolved into tears again as she laid down upon the bed. Gilraeth rose and somberly went outside, his face pale yet emotionless. He stared at the misty ground before him, the same ground his father had tread that fateful day he'd walked away from his home, his family. It had been the last day Gilraeth had ever seen him again.
Prologue
Gilraeth watched his father, Gomeir, walk down the road, away from his home. His mother, Gynil, stood with her son, tears in her eyes as she watched her husband leaving. Along with his other war gear, Gomeir carried his most prized possession (as far as inanimate objects go), his sword, Darnithmil. It was an Elven sword, though Gilraeth was never quite sure of that. But he was young, merely eight years old, and so he had not handled a sword as of yet.
For now, he watched as Gomeir disappeared around the bend in the road, his brown eyes shimmering with un-spilled tears. He knew where his father was going, but he did not know if he would ever return. Though Gomeir had told him to be brave, he found it very difficult to do so as he and his mother turned to go back inside the house.
For many months, there were rumors of the war, but no information specific on who perished in battle or who was wounded or missing. Gilraeth and Gynil adjusted to life without Gomeir, though with much difficulty. Gynil had always left the raising of Gilraeth to Gomeir, who was an outstanding father. Now she was not sure of what to do with the young, inquisitive, endlessly-hungry boy. With some time, though, she got used to doing things with him that Gomeir would usually do instead. Gilraeth showed her how to fish, and Gynil taught him a few simple recipes.
They lived this way for nearly a year, and though Gomeir was no longer their center thoughts, the father and husband was never forgotten. Every day, both mother and son took a few moments to pray for his safety in the battlefield and for a swift return home. Both eagerly awaited his homecoming.
But that hope of his return flickered and died one gloomy day in November. The skies were gray, and the lands were shrouded in a thick mist. As Gilraeth, now nine, ran down the road back home after fetching some ingredients for Gynil, he could not see that the door was already open until he was nearly to it. This was strange, for Gilraeth knew his mother never left the front door open. With caution, he entered, his brown eyes wide and slightly fearful.
"Mother?" he called, his voice trembling a little as he closed the door behind him. There was no sound at first, but then there came the sound of soft weeping from Gynil's bedroom. Gilraeth laid the food items on the table and quietly went to the room, peeking through a crack in the door, which was somewhat ajar. He saw his mother sprawled upon the bed, her face hidden in the covers, sobbing bitterly. Gilraeth entered the room and silently sat beside her.
"Mother?" he whispered.
After a moment, Gynil sat upright, wiping her eyes, sniffling. As she looked at her son, Gilraeth saw the pain and anguish within her hazel eyes. His own brimmed with tears. He had never seen his mother cry before.
Gynil enveloped her son in a tight embrace, beginning the tears anew. Confused yet empathetic, Gilraeth did not utter a sound, even when the embrace became uncomfortable. Yet he did not have to wait long to be released. He looked at his mother again.
"What's the matter, mother?"
Gynil swallowed the lump in her throat, looking Gilraeth in the eye. "Gilraeth." She paused. This was too heartbreaking, but he needed to know. She inhaled deeply and began again.
"Gilraeth. The captain of your father's army came by today and he - he said that Gomeir was -"
Gilraeth's brow furrowed, his mouth slightly agape. He already knew what his mother was going to say before she finished.
"He was killed in battle, Gilraeth."
Gynil dissolved into tears again as she laid down upon the bed. Gilraeth rose and somberly went outside, his face pale yet emotionless. He stared at the misty ground before him, the same ground his father had tread that fateful day he'd walked away from his home, his family. It had been the last day Gilraeth had ever seen him again.