The Tenth Turn of the Moon Since the Fall
The damp still clings to me, a chill deeper than the river’s icy kiss. Ten moons have waxed and waned since the Greylin river clawed at me, since the rocks bruised my bones and stole the lightness from my step. Ma always said the river was in my blood, but now I feel only its bitterness.
Misthallow… it feels a lifetime away. The scent of woodsmoke and baking bread, the laughter of children by the ford, the gentle murmur of the Withywindle… all ghosts now, haunting the edges of my waking thoughts. I can’t bear to go back, not like this. A cripple, a shadow of the Cylo who could out-fish any lad in the village, who could dance a jig until the dawn.
The healing… it’s slow, a stubborn weed in stony ground. My leg throbs with a dull ache that never truly sleeps, and my back… well, bending feels like cracking dry twigs. Master Elrond’s poultices helped some, back when a kindly soul found me half-drowned and delirious on the riverbank. But his charity couldn’t last, and pride wouldn’t let me burden him further.
So, I’ve found other ways. Unsavory ways, the sort that would make Ma weep and Da’s face darken like a stormy sky. The Greenway is a ribbon of opportunity, though a dangerous one. Travelers, heavy with coin and careless with their watch, make easy targets in the black hours before dawn. A swift hand, a muffled footfall, and a well-placed shadow… it’s not honest work, not Hobbit-like at all. But hunger gnaws harder than conscience these days.
Tonight, it was a party of Dwarves, their snores rumbling like distant thunder. They’d made a merry camp, firelight painting the trees in dancing hues. I crept like a fox through the undergrowth, the damp earth muffling my movements. A leather pouch, fat with what felt like silver, lay carelessly beside a sleeping beardling. It was quick, clean. No need for violence, just a little… borrowing.
The guilt, it’s a bitter taste that lingers long after the stolen bread is gone. I see their faces in my dreams, ruddy and trusting. But then I feel the throb in my leg, the stiffness in my back, and the memory of the river’s cold embrace washes over me. It’s the river that did this, the river that stole my life. These travelers, they’re just… paying a small toll. A twisted sort of justice, I tell myself.
Will I ever be whole again? Will I ever feel the sun on my face without this gnawing shame? Sometimes, by a lonely campfire, I hum the old Shire tunes, the ones Ma used to sing. But the melody feels thin and distant, like a forgotten dream.
The tenth turn of the moon… and I am further from home than ever. The river flows on, uncaring, and I, Cylo of Misthallow, drift along its shadowed banks, a broken reed in a world that has grown suddenly sharp and unforgiving.
