The Twelfth Turn of the Moon
The stolen Elvish cloth feels soft against my skin, a stark contrast to the rough-spun I’m used to. It’s a constant reminder of what I’ve become, a thief draped in finery pilfered from innocence. The silver comb lies tucked away, its delicate carvings mocking my calloused fingers. I haven’t the heart to part with it yet, a foolish sentimentality for a creature who now lives by taking.
The woods have become my home, a tangled labyrinth of shadow and silence. I know its hidden paths and secret hollows better than I ever knew the winding lanes of Misthallow. The rustling leaves whisper secrets, and the hoot of the owl is my nightly companion. Yet, there’s no comfort here, only a gnawing loneliness that even a full belly cannot dispel.
I’ve taken to watching the other travelers more closely now. Not just as potential targets, but as… people. I see families laughing around crackling fires, young lovers whispering secrets under the moonlight, weary pilgrims seeking solace. Each encounter is a fresh stab of guilt, a stark reminder of the life I’ve abandoned.
One evening, I saw a group of Misthallow-folk, their faces round and cheerful, their voices carrying the familiar lilt of the Westfarthing. They sang a song I knew well, a simple tune about the joys of home and hearth. My heart ached with a longing so fierce it felt like a physical blow. I had to turn away, to bury myself deeper in the shadows lest they see the broken, haunted look in my eyes. Would they even recognize Cylo now? The River Hobbit, reduced to a skulking shadow on the edges of the world he once knew.
The question haunts me constantly: Who am I now? Am I still Cylo of Misthallow, the cheerful fisherman, the nimble dancer? Or have I become something else entirely, a creature defined by desperation and stolen goods? The river changed me, yes, broke me in ways I’m still discovering. But did it have to lead me to this? Did the pain in my leg have to poison my heart?
Sometimes, I try to remember Ma’s face, the warmth of her smile, the gentle scolding in her voice. But the memories feel faded, like old tapestries worn thin with time. It’s as if the thief I’ve become is slowly erasing the Hobbit I once was.
I tried my hand at fishing again, a few days past. Found a quiet stretch of the Withywindle, a pale imitation of the Greylin, but still… water. My fingers, clumsy and hesitant, fumbled with the line. The familiar tug, the thrill of the catch… it was gone. The joy had leached away, replaced by a dull ache of loss. Even the river, once my friend, now feels like a stranger.
I see my reflection in still pools sometimes – a gaunt face, shadowed eyes that hold a flicker of something wild and untrusting. The carefree grin is gone, replaced by a tight, wary expression. This is not me. This cannot be me.
The twelfth turn of the moon, and I am adrift, not just on the Greenway, but within myself. I steal to survive, but what am I surviving for? Is this existence, this shadow dance of guilt and fear, all that awaits me? A desperate yearning for something more, something better, stirs within me. But the path back to the light seems long and treacherous, shrouded in the darkness of my own making. I don’t know if the River Hobbit can ever truly find his way home again.
