Vormire Fallen
October 2018
The pitchfork sunk into the hay, crushing it under the sharpened metal. The sun beat down onto the red haired man, just having risen above the horizon.
He removed the pitchfork, then sunk it again. The crushing of the hay echoing in his ears, slowly seeping into the breaking of bones. Images flashed across his eyes: the hay began to bleed, the pitchfork sunken halfway into the tall pile. He pulled it out, the blood disappeared.
Lothloriel stood, pitchfork at his side as he stared at the fairly normal pile of hay. The sky above him bled a deep red, the clouds moving softly across the bloody landscape.
He raised a hand to his head, brushing away the beads of sweat that had formed across his brow. It had been some time since he had imagined blood and his past killings. That’s how he knew it was going to be a bad fucking day.
Taking in a deep breath, he sighed, leaning the pitchfork against the side of his small home. The bricked walls chipped and weathered, the rain having turned the walls brittle. Part of him was surprised it even stood, half expecting it to collapse right next to him.
He pushed strands on his hair back, all of it tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a small strap of leather. Lothloriel could feel the sweat forming there too and sighed. He had planned on looking decent going into town that day instead of his usual mess, but it was a waste to bathe again.
Walking back through the side door, he sighed as he pushed back his hair again. He wasn’t too thrilled about going to town, actually dreaded having to go but he needed supplies. Food was running low, and he needed a new plate because of Milo.
Lothloriel crossed the room, picking up his tattered and dull cloak that sat inside a small closet, strapping it around his shoulders. His eyes caught the floorboards in the closet, giving them a moment of thought before moving on. Lothloriel didn’t need those today, hopefully not ever. His small pouch of coin sat at the edge of his small table, snatching it up and tying it to his belt. The weathered letter sitting on the other end caught his eye, the wax embellished with the crest he knew all too well. He frowned, his emerald eyes held on the letter that once must have looked pure white, now speckled with mud and whatever else had gotten on it. The weathered, food stained table and the letter looked as though they belonged in the decaying home.
It must have taken quite a while to get to him, probably holding something of importance if he knew anything about the person it came from. That was exactly why he refused to open it, refused to leave his solitude even though someone already knew his location.
Lothloriel felt a chill go up his spine, his stomach churning as he ripped his eyes away from the letter and stormed out of the house. He should just burn the letter, discard of it and be done with it for once. Perhaps he would do that upon his return and after a long bath.
Shutting the side door, he unraveled Irideus’ reigns and looked out over the landscape. The sky slowly returning to its usual blue, the blood red fading as the sun grew ever higher into the sky. The blades of grass swayed gracefully against the gentle wind, his hair shifting along his back.
Mounting Irideus, they made their way to the city, the wind caressing his face. It took a few hours to get to the nearest village, an ideal distance for him. Staying far away from any sort of civilization and drama was best for him, for everyone involved and he only arrived for supplies. He barely stayed for an hour and then left again. He didn’t need anyone recognizing him, even though most of those who knew his face were all dead.
Once they grew nearer to the village, he pulled the hood over his face making sure it was concealed. The swirl of ancient markings etched around his eyes and his brows, forming a sort of mask that gave him away far too easily. Of all the places they could have hidden the damn thing, they had to choose his face. Lothloriel should have fought harder for his back to be decorated.
The peaceful hillside slowly turned into the tops of houses, the grass transforming into cracked cobblestone under Irideus’ hooves. His approached was now echoed by the clip clop of Irideus’ steps along the path. Smoke blew from chimneys, people gathered around tables and buckets of food and other items for travelers. A sign for an “inn” swung against the wind, squeaking with each move back and forth.
People’s voices echoed around him as they begged and bargained for their items as he climbed down from his horse. His boots falling down onto the heavy stone, pulling Irideus along through the middle as he moved towards the usual places he purchased his things.
No one turned to see him, did not give him a second glance and he had grown accustomed to it. He once would have been insulted had they ignored him, deemed him equal to themselves. Would have felt himself worthy of some praise for his sacrifice, for his work in their aid and fighting for their right to eat and sleep and do whatever they pleased. Now, well he couldn’t care less if they noticed him at all. Preferred it if they didn’t actually, not wanting to be seen or followed and kept to himself.