The Children of Doriath

The child was crying — silent tears born of exhaustion and despair. His brother had curled up against him, like a wounded fox, and had stopped whimpering for now. Shallow breaths barely lifted his chest. The child hoped they had ran far enough. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the blood-stained face of the one who had dragged them to the forest. They were cosy here, in the embrace of ancient tree roots, despite the winter cold.

His brother opened his eyes, but didn't say anything; he tried to prop himself up, but his leg hurt, and he began to cry again as the cold wind howled like a wolf through the trees. The child tried to sit more comfortably against the roots, but dried leaves clammy with old rain clung to his palms, and he felt that if he moved any more the forest soil would open up and swallow him whole.