The Eleventh Turn of the Moon
Dear Journal
The air grows sharper with the coming of proper autumn. Leaves the color of sunset that cling precariously to the branches, and one can feel the bite of the wind even through a stolen woolen cloak. The pouch from the Dwarves is nearly empty. Silver melts away like morning mist when a body’s always hungry and needs a bit of liniment for the cursed leg.
Last night, the Greenway offered little. A lone merchant, huddled miserably beneath a leaky cart, had naught but a few coppers and a string of dried onions. Not worth the risk of arousing him. Patience, I tell myself, like a fisherman waiting for a nibble. But my belly rumbles a different tune – a frantic, impatient one.
Today, I spied a different sort of prey. Not on the road itself, but venturing off it, towards the whispering woods that border the Old Forest. Two young Elves, their cloaks shimmering like moonlight on water, their laughter echoing like silver bells. They carried small packs, likely filled with trinkets and Elvish fancies, things that would fetch a fair price back home in Misthallow, perhaps even further east.
A shadow of my former self, yes, but the river taught me stealth. I moved through the trees like a wraith, the fallen leaves barely rustling beneath my patched boots. They were engrossed in some whispered conversation, their backs to the path. A foolish carelessness for those who wander so close to the wild.
It was easier than I’d imagined. A sudden rustle in the undergrowth, a sharp hiss like a startled adder, and they both turned, wide-eyed. Fear flickered in their ancient eyes. I didn’t draw the rusty knife I carry now, not yet. Just a low growl, a hunched posture, playing the part of something wild and desperate.
They surrendered their packs without a struggle. Perhaps they sensed the desperation in me, the flicker of something broken and dangerous. Their voices, when they spoke, were like the sighing of the wind through willow branches, laced with a sadness that pricked at my conscience. They spoke of needing the herbs within for a healing draught.
That pricked me, it did. Healing. I know that ache, that longing. For a moment, the old Cylo, the one who wouldn’t harm a fly, stirred within me. But then the cold reality of my throbbing leg and empty belly returned. Needs must, the world whispers in my ear these days.
I took the packs and melted back into the woods, leaving them standing there, their slender forms silhouetted against the fading light. The herbs… I tipped a few of the dried leaves onto the forest floor, a small, foolish offering to ease the sting of my deed. The rest, along with some finely woven cloth and a silver comb, I’ve hidden away.
Tonight, I’ll sleep a little warmer, a little less hungry. But the weight in my chest remains. These Elves… they were different. There was a purity about them, an innocence that made my actions feel even uglier. The Dwarves were boisterous and well-fed; these Elves seemed to carry the weight of the world in their gentle eyes.
The eleventh turn of the moon, and the river’s bitterness has seeped deeper into my soul. I am becoming something I do not recognize, a creature of shadow and stolen moments. I tell myself it is temporary, a means to an end. But what end awaits a Hobbit who walks this shadowed path? I fear the answer lies hidden in the dark currents of my own making.
