Diary of Cyfier - Nine Years

9 years....

Many old legends exist in this world. Far to many to chronicle. So it can be assumed that one may hear of an unwritten legend long before some scholars document it and immortalise it in a library somewhere. A great many of these legends are not about heroic acts of valor, or some far away fellowship on a long path, or even dragons from an age ago. Some are lesser but can have a far greater impact on a life.
It is said that Mirkwood is full of legends, curses and dark magic. The woods themselves capable of speaking to all in the world. That it calls upon folks who have cast aside their own paths, forced themselves away, never to forfil their true destiny or further cause any kind of ripple, no matter how small in the world. The voice of Mirkwood lures these souls deep into the woods to meet their eventual doom and their bodies serve to feed the trees and plants that grow there, ensuring all in the world serves a purpose. These folk, according to the legend are sleep walkers, lured by hope of finding what they seek through dream. A concept, I quite easily dismissed.

What if the will of a soul is greater than the curse? Will nothing come of it? Does will not count for anything? What if, the results are a simply a mixture of a man's desire and parts of the curse? A mortar and pestle of will vs legend. Could this be why I remained away for so long? Why I tortured myself and denied myself a moments peace? Was I called to Mirkwood? I had almost certainly assumed I decided that Rohirrim fields where solitary enough to survive alone, undisturbed by the world. Hearing no voice call to the woods in the north. Waiting out the old list of enemies I had acquired through my years of misdeeds. A few months and they would turn attention elsewhere, no longer hunting me or trying to harm those nearby to lure me out.

9 years....
I would find myself inside those woods often. Only north a little. Hunting grounds for meat, hides and trinkets if you was able to sneak through well enough.
I would find a small, hidden safe spot to sleep the nights away, only waking many hours later, some distance further west and further exhausted. Each day was spent putting distance between myself and Breeland, and I hoped, distance from Ilaru. Only each night I would dream of seeing her again, dreams of different stories, spotting her from my hiding place in a market square as she went about her day. Wanting her to know I was here, alive, still fighting for her safety. Instead  I would fight a temptation, an argument inside my own mind over the benefits and disadvantages of allowing myself to be seen. Every so often, the other voice would gain a victory and I would set forward, Ilaru would come undone from her browsing, and almost instantly find my eyes in the crowd. The moment of looking her in the eyes, and panic that I was discovered along with the notion of not knowing what to say was always powerful enough to wake me. Somewhere far from where I lay down. Far from where I was. Somewhere else, this Mirkwood curse would place me in the world while letting go only long enough to reinforce its grip.

9 years....
Many times did I find myself lost to the world, waking somewhere else, always straying in the direction of Breeland.
Often my dreams or my thoughts would convince me I died long ago. Somehow,  somewhere inside of Mirkwood, lay my decaying, rotten corpse. My blackened armour would be trinkets for orcs and elves while the wargs and goblins made picks of my bones. Never was I given a reason to doubt my fate. Tormented by Ilaru's cameo roles within each nights attempt at sleep, unable to reach her, unable to feel her touch. I think all men would have stepped into madness, much like myself.

9 years...
A dream which occurred often was within Far Chetwood. A boulder set on the lakeside where we used to meet to discuss our events of the day, or more often in my case, to ommit the details which she would not have cared for.
In my dreams, She would stand upon the rock, looking over to the water. I was always able to get close enough to imagine I was stood by her side, looking over the lake in her company. She would mutter words to herself as if by ritual, or rehearsals of conversations she had planned and I could stand there, almost by her side, responding as if we spoke to one another, as if I was more than a ghost inside my own dream.

9 years...
The lake is complimentary to any dream sequence or and artistic impression. It breaks the treelines well enough to allow the sun or moonlight to glisten on the calms waters and feed the reeds growing sparingly on some of its edges. A rolling cliff on one side forms a natural pathway around its southern side and the boulder in which Ilaru would stand creates a peer upon the water. The world had created itself this place of beauty and tried to hide it away from man so it would forever remain unhindered by their industrious touch.
Upon the rock, I stood beside her as we muttered words to one another. She would tell me, as far as hallucinations go, I am not the worst. Our usual attempts on humour are often quick quips before moving towards the matters on hand, the matter on hand in this conversation is myself, apologizing for my death which of course, is a strange conversation to be in, but it naturally flowed and seemed the right thing to do. Standing, looking over the water and the view granted to us, we discussed the occurrences of her life since I vanished from it. How she went on for a time, mourning her loss of me until time passed well enough for her to accept it in someway, how she married Haldrid. They bore together a child, who tragically passed and eventually, Haldrid to had disappeared also. How few the events of Breeland had become nowadays, as if Bree herself had become restful in her age. The tales of sadness. How dreams can easily change. She turned to me in this conversation of history going by without me, she looked upon me and in that moment I should have woken far away, the moment I reached for her hand and felt her touch, the strange cold, yet warm touch of Ilaru, the Mirkwood curse shall wake me far from her. Instead she told me of the last time we was together, how she felt somewhat ill and indifferent. She told me how that illness turned in to Child, our Son we had together. Our Son... who is now of 9 years.