The first rays of dawn filtered through the treetops, casting a warm, golden light into Laeroth Galanodel’s modest woodland home. He stirred from his slumber, blinking sleepily as he sat up in bed, the quiet of the morning wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. With a long, contented stretch, Laeroth rose and began his morning routine, his movements unhurried and deliberate.
As he walked through his home, the passage of time was evident in every corner. The walls were adorned with shelves overflowing with scrolls, books, and letters—hundreds of letters, each one carefully stored and preserved. These letters were the lifeblood of Laeroth’s quiet existence, sent from distant lands by his twin brother, Therion. They chronicled the epic adventures, daring rescues, and thrilling battles that had become the stuff of legend among their people.
Laeroth paused beside a small writing desk, his fingers brushing over a pile of parchment and a half-filled inkwell. He had taken it upon himself to write down Therion’s stories, turning the letters into vivid tales that would be shared and remembered for generations. Beside the desk lay several completed manuscripts, each one detailing a different chapter in his brother’s remarkable life.
Satisfied with his brief inspection, Laeroth made his way outside, stepping into the lush garden that surrounded his home. The garden was a testament to his deep connection with the earth, filled with a variety of elven plants and herbs, each one meticulously tended to. Laeroth moved among the rows of greenery, his hands deftly pruning and watering, ensuring that everything was in perfect harmony.
Once his gardening was done, Laeroth strolled into the forest, his heart light as he took in the familiar sights and sounds. The forest had always been his sanctuary, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts and the creatures of the woods. As he walked, a small squirrel darted up to him, chattering excitedly. Laeroth chuckled softly and knelt down, offering the creature a nut from his pocket. The squirrel took it eagerly before scurrying off, its tail flicking in thanks.
Not far from where he stood, the sound of laughter and excited voices broke through the forest’s tranquility. Laeroth turned to see a group of young elves running toward him, their eyes bright with anticipation.
“Laeroth! Laeroth!” they called out, their voices a chorus of youthful exuberance. “Tell us one of your brother’s stories!”
Laeroth’s lips curved into a warm smile as he watched them approach. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands to quiet them down. “Gather around, and I’ll tell you one of his latest adventures.”
The children quickly sat in a circle around Laeroth, their eager faces turned up toward him. Laeroth began to speak, his voice weaving the tale of one of Therion’s heroic deeds. As he narrated, his fingers subtly moved in the air, conjuring small illusions to accompany his words. The images danced above the children’s heads—Therion, fierce and determined, battling a fearsome creature; a perilous journey across a raging river; a moment of triumph as Therion saved an entire village from certain doom.
The young elves watched in awe, their imaginations captured by the vivid scenes that Laeroth brought to life with his magic. When the story reached its end, they burst into applause, their faces alight with admiration.
“Has your brother sent a new story?” one of the young elves asked hopefully, her wide eyes filled with excitement.
Laeroth’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly masked it with a reassuring grin. “Not yet,” he replied gently. “But I’m sure it won’t be long. He always sends word when he’s on a new adventure.”
The children sighed in unison, clearly disappointed. “I can’t wait to hear what he’s up to next,” another elf said wistfully, before the group began to disperse, chattering amongst themselves as they wandered off into the forest.
As Laeroth watched them go, a shadow of concern crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He turned to head back toward his home when he noticed a familiar figure approaching him from the trees.
It was Arannis, a graceful young elf with sharp, inquisitive eyes. She had been a frequent visitor to Laeroth’s home, often coming to him for advice or simply to share in the peace of the forest.
“Good morning, Arannis,” Laeroth greeted her with a nod and a soft smile.
“Morning, Laeroth,” she replied, her tone friendly but tinged with concern. “You know, it’s been a year since Therion’s last letter. Don’t you worry about him? It’s never taken him this long to send word.”
Laeroth’s smile didn’t waver, though there was a faint tension in his voice as he responded, “Nah, I’m sure he’s fine. You know how he is—always getting caught up in something big. Probably just too busy to write.”
Arannis studied him closely, noticing the flicker of worry in his eyes despite his calm demeanor. “If you say so,” she said quietly, though her own concern was evident.
As the day wore on, Laeroth tried to push the troubling thoughts from his mind, but they lingered like a dark cloud. That evening, as the stars began to dot the night sky, he returned to his desk to continue his nightly routine of archiving his brother’s adventures. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the pages as Laeroth carefully transcribed Therion’s latest feats into a new manuscript.
But as he wrote, his hand trembled slightly, and he pressed the quill too hard against the parchment. The pen snapped, and a blot of ink spread across the page, marring the perfect script. Laeroth stared at the ink stain, a sense of unease washing over him. It felt like a bad omen, an unsettling sign that something was not right.
Sighing, Laeroth set the quill aside and cleaned up the ink as best he could. He decided to retire for the night, hoping that sleep would bring him some peace. But as he prepared to lie down, a sudden crash echoed through the quiet of his home, startling him. It sounded as if something had struck his door with great force.
Heart pounding, Laeroth hurried to the door and flung it open. His breath caught in his throat when he saw what awaited him on the doorstep.
One of Therion’s spirit animals—a small, ethereal bird with shimmering feathers—was perched on the ground, its wings drooping with exhaustion. Clutched in its tiny talons was a familiar object: one of Therion’s daggers, its blade gleaming in the moonlight. And beside it, nestled carefully in the bird’s beak, was a single, glowing Fëanoril seed.
Laeroth’s heart sank as he gently took the dagger and seed from the bird, the weight of the objects heavy in his hands. The sight of the seed—a symbol of a desperate call for help—sent a shiver down his spine.
Therion was in trouble. And for the first time in centuries, Laeroth felt truly afraid.