Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Spirits in the Night

"Illeandir! Wake! We are hunted!" Ithilwen shouted bursting into his room. Illeandir dropped his book and sprang to his feet. It was just hours after dark, a small candle lit the corner of the room with a low chair he had been reclining in mulling over his conversation with Nara earlier that day. Ithilwen hurried over clutching a sack in her small her small hands and blew out the candle.

"Who hunts us?" Illeandir asked throwing his cloak over his shoulders. Ithilwen stuffed his spare clothes in the sack as he strapped his weapons to his body within easy reach.

"The council has sent guards after to you to bring you before the court on charge of murder. They mean to convict you. You will not escape unless we leave now. Mounts wait on the lowest level. Should we become separated ride hard and fast to Osgiliath. Do not wait for me. Fresh mounts will be there for us. Take one and ride to Ithilien. Stay on the west side of the Anduin. Hide there and show yourself to no one. I will find you."

Their eyes met and Ithilwen smiled bravely but her lower lip quivered slightly.

"So begins the final journey." She reached up and kissed Illeandir's cheek, she could reach no higher. She took his hand in hers. "Let us flee like spirits in the night."

"Spirits have no place among the living," was all Illeandir said before he allowed her to lead him by the hand through the Houses of Healing and into the moonlit streets of Minas Tirith. Their sensitive ears picked up shouting coming from before them and they dove into a dark alley as dozens of soldiers ran by toward the Healing Houses. Illeandir let out a slow sigh. Their chances of escaping were becoming slimmer by the minute.

Ithilwen took his hand again and they took to the shadows, careful not to step into the light or make any noise that would alert their pursuers to their location. An inn, noisy with activity, sheltered them while a patrol passed by. Just as they stepped out onto the street again the door opened. Warm yellow light spilled onto the cobblestone streets. A short squat figure was tossed out and the door slammed shut.

Illeandir grunted as the figure, reeling with drunkenness, headbutted him in the leg. They staggered back shaking a callused fist in rage.

"Oi! I'll teach ya to toss a dwarf! Nobody tosses a dwarf!" the dwarf shouted and staggered forward a step before falling over. He looked up and noticed the elves. "Well, shave my beard! Elves!"

"Shh!" Ithilwen exclaimed. The dwarf ignored her.

"I ain't seen one since I was a wee 'lil lady," he said.

"Illeandir, we must go," Ithilwen said tugging on his arm.

"We can't leave him here," Illeandir said. Ithilwen huffed.

"Of course we can! He's a dwarf!"

"I'm not leaving him here. He'll give us away if they find him," Illeandir said pointing to the dwarf who was singing happily with his legs crossed.

"Very well," Ithilwen sighed. "But we leave him as soon as possible."

"Agreed," Illeandir said. He did not entirely agree with Ithilwen. A little less than a century ago he had spent fifteen years living with dwarves in the Iron Hills and had grown fond of the hairy, brusque mannered, short folk. The only thing he did not particularly like about them was their fondness for drink as this one before him proved.

"Come, Master Dwarf," Illeandir said, heaving the dwarf to his feet.

"Aye, some respect at last. Filthy humans don't know a respectable dwarf when they see one!" He thumped his chest with a fist and promptly fell over. Illeandir heard Ithilwen strangle a groan and he threw the dwarf bodily over his shoulder and began walking.