Alfýkin: The Last of the Elves

Broken Promise: Part One

The weeks passed far too slowly as Ithilwen, Thrilo, and Illeandir made their way northwest. Their path was easy, or would have been if injuries had not prevented them from moving more than three leagues a day. Ithilwen had mostly healed after her harsh treatment at the hands of the wild men, whom Illeandir still harbored deep bitterness to. She still limped, but with each passing day her limp became less pronounced and she moved more easily.

Of the trio, Illeandir moved the slowest, not because he hurt, which he did, but because he was tired. So very tired. From the day he'd set foot in Gondor a little over a month and a half ago he'd hardly rested, truly rested. Now he fought for every hour, putting one foot in front of the other over and over again.

Ithilwen stopped to wait for him while he climbed slowly up a low hill. At the top he could see Thrilo marching purposefully on, a quarter mile ahead of them. Sometimes Thrilo walked beside Illeandir and others he traveled far ahead. A thin band of dark trees could be seen to the west. Fangorn was not more than four days travel from the hilltop.

Illeandir sighed in relief. Soon they would be sheltered beneath the heavy boughs of the ancient forest and away from unfriendly eyes. Their every stepped had been watched by unseen eyes. He could feel them.

"We must rest," Ithilwen said.

"Soon," Illeandir replied as he started down the hill.

"You cannot keep going on like this, Illeandir," Ithilwen shouted, chasing after him.

"I know," whispered Illeandir to himself. "I have to." Zaharias' plight was all that kept him moving. He knew his friend was alive, but for how much longer? How long until he was beyond aid? 'Til they were both beyond aid?

...

Four days later they stood at Fangorn's edge. A stiff wind from the plains sent the boughs creaking and groaning like the bones of an ancient man. The trees whispered unheard words in a long forgotten language to the ears of man. Many an elf could hear the whispering, but fewer and fewer could understand it as the centuries passed.

"Do you hear them?" Illeandir asked, a warm smile on his face. Thrilo grunted. He was less than happy about the woods.

"I hear them," Ithilwen said. "What are they saying?"

Illeandir's mouth twitched in amusement.

"I haven't any idea, but they are happy. Our burdens trouble them not." What he could not hear was the cause of their joy. Elves would walk among them again! Their branches quivered and they reached out as if to touch Illeandir and Ithilwen.

Thrilo scurried away with a grumble.

"Ain't natural," he muttered.

Illeandir's weariness melted away. He stepped close to the nearest tree and ran his hand along the rough, mossy bark. The tree seemed to shiver and gently swayed. The trees next to it swayed as well and their movement was copied throughout the forest as the message rang loud and clear for those who could hear.

An Elf! An Elf! Teacher of words. Child of the wood. An Elf! An Elf! Praise Yavanna!

Their joy was so strong many a creature woke from deep sleep. Amber eyes, deeper than wells opened, memories long buried under the years resurfaced, a song was rekindled. The forest was awake.

"Come!" Illeandir exclaimed, reaching toward Ithilwen. "Feel them. They are awake."

Excitement shone bright on his face. His eyes were clear of the cloud of grief and loneliness. Once again Ithilwen realized how young he truly was. She let him take her hand and place it under his against the sun-warmed bark.