Misfit

Chapter Four

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪Third Age 2789April 18≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Culfin lingered in the silent glade for nearly a month beside his mother's tombstone, both out of grief and in the faint hope that his father might yet come to him. He slept little and ate less, not realizing that it was his half-Elven blood that staved away the aching of hunger. Time slipped away from him, so consuming was his grief; it was almost like a real, physical pain that withered his heart and mind.

Part of him dreamed that this was but a brief nightmare, that he would wake up from it any morning now and realize none of this had happened. Part of him still could not accept that this had happened, and that the smooth, cold sensation he felt when he traced his finger across the name on the tombstone was real.

The Rangers had meticulously carved her name upon it in a delicate, swirling script; as a descendent of Westernesse herself, she had been given a proper Dúnedain burial. The Dúnedain were blessed with strength, resilience, and longevity; Gwyllith should have lived a long, full life, but it had been cut short by a band of lowly barbarians.

'I should have saved her', Culfin whispered to himself. Such thoughts were knives that rent his mind often and tormented his soul, especially now, when he was alone with his thoughts and the silence of the wood.

He wished his father was with him.

Culfin had written him a letter as soon as he had returned to Archet, explaining what had happened and pleading him to come and be with him, to mourn together, but his father had not come. Culfin had never even received an answer to the letter he sent, which brought his spirit even lower; did his father not care that Gwyllith was dead? Did he not care that Culfin was grieving her death alone?

No, he told himself. He would not feel so; he must be mourning himself ... or else he does not yet know.

This was the first time that Culfin thought seriously of leaving the Rangers and going back to Greenwood.

««——– ≪ °◇❈◇° ≫ ——–»»

Pale morning was rising over the tall conifer trees when quiet footsteps reached Culfin's ears. He raised his head to look at the newcomer, a fleeting hope stirring in him that it might be his father, but it quickly vanished when the burly form of Gailen came into view. He stood respectfully at the edge of the small glade, his normally twinkling eyes dull with sadness as he looked at Culfin. The two men regarded each other in silence for some time, Gailen taking a breath every now and then and shifting his hands in a manner that suggested he wanted to say something, but was still searching for the right words.

"Culfin..." Gailen finally said after a long moment, his voice low and hesitant, "How long to you intend to stay here like this? We're all worried about you."

Culfin sighed. He knew Gailen was right; he could not ignore the hunger and fatigue for much longer. Yet, he could not bring himself to say it out loud. He could not just leave here and forget this ever happened, nor could he abandon the possibility that his father might still come ... And, if he was being quite honest, he was not ready to return to the Rangers, either. They had a hand in his mother's death as well. If Culfin had simply been there with her on her journey, the bandits would never have touched her.

Gailen seemed to sense the accusation in Culfin's prolonged silence, for his shoulders sagged slightly and he let out a long breath. "My friend ... you cannot know how deeply I grieve for your loss. Gwyllith was a wonderful woman, and a friend to many of us—even Thelerim. She regrets not giving you leave to go with her that day. I know that our sorrow is nothing compared to yours ... but I cannot stand by and watch you wither away because of it. So, I at least brought you this."