As the night is falling, covering the earth in its black coat and waking all the shadows that laid hidden till that moment of the twilight, forest ceases to be a friendly place. It becomes the realm of horror instead. The dusk is the time when all the good spirits and Manwë’s birds go to sleep and creatures of the night sneak out to begin their hunt. Under the low branches, bushes and ferns no longer kind faeries reside but the monsters with eyes glowing in the dark, feeding on blood of the living, ready to attack you at any moment.
The shapes are no longer distinctly visible; all fades, blends. The narrow branches seem like fingers reaching for you and not with the positive intent. Old trees look gravely, they look at you and it raises your hackles and you wish to escape but they surround you from all sides. They should be immobile but wind is caressing them and they bow and shift and whisper among themselves. Perhaps they plan vengeance for all the wrongs they suffered at your ancestor’s hands.
Two lost souls of the frightened children left alone into the woods to starve remember all the scary tales about Huorns as the enormous presence of all the old trees press on them.
They clung to each other, trying to find safety in brotherly arms but they’re powerless against the vast force of nature. The cold, the fear, wild beasts, the hunger eventually are dangers not every grown man could deal with. Children stand no chances.
Frightened out of their minds, hunted by perils real and imagined, by wargs’ howls and ghosts’ giggles, they don’t hear Maedhros calling their names in the distance.
The dawn meets them cold, two little bodies huddled against the tree, embracing each other tightly. No breath leaves their mouths, no heartbeat pumps their blood, no sign of life is in them. Only two little corps remains after princes, never to be found.