Leaiwen's P.O.V
The wind blew though my hair, a storm was brewing in the south. I could feel something stirring in the air, like today my life would change. As I pulled my bundle of food, (mostly consisting of bread and water) closer to me, the strong gales tugged and pulled at my strawberry blonde hair; causing me to stumble on the steep steps. All I could think about was Gandalf and how he must be freezing, drenched and scared as sh*t. Saruman had not fed him in a number of days, the poor man must be starved, that is why I was bringing this food to him. I could go without food for a while, I was still just a child-in elf years- Gandalf however was old and needed the extra nourishment.
Although I was still young and defenceless, Gandalf offered me any help that he could in my training. He could watch me from atop the tower and show me better ways to use the bow and daggers that lady Galadriel had brought me when she sought Saruman's council. The same visit that I had received the news that my mother was dead. The bone coloured handle of my daggers glistened and gleamed in the late October sun set. Rain and hail pelted my face, I in-voluntary squinted by emerald green eyes. After letting them adjust, I began to walk towards my friend, if you might say walk, it was more of a stagger against the strong winds. His grey beard was blowing behind him, the cloudy cloak swept around his ebony boots; arms folded crossly on his chest. As I collapsed next to Gandalf, he immediately began to poke through the cloth, revealing the soft rye bred and tiny canister of frigid water. Like a ravenous animal, the old man attacked what little I had brought, occasionally bringing the canister to his dry, cracked lips. I was a little bit annoyed that he had not said one word to me, not one of thanks, appreciation or gratitude, only bit after bite after bite. All too soon, it was gone. The food was a dry, parched land, and all the water from the flask had dried up. Then, he began to talk.
"Yes" Gandalf mumbled to me, "I want you to go to your room, pack clothes for two weeks, and all the weapons that you own. Be up here for nine thirty, The night is fair, the winds are strong and the rain hard, the perfect night for an escape, is it not?
The trapdoor unlocked, I hopped down the steep stairs, trying to contain my excitement; I could never have hoped for this, almost twelve years spent, wasted, cooped up like a lamb for the slaughter. But how Gandalf plans to escape, I do not know. Saruman threatened to feed me to the wargs if Gandalf was found inside the tower, wether I had anything to do with it or not, so the front doors were out of the question. So was jumping of the roof, for obvious reasons. I wonder what he has planned...
Sharp edges were a common finding in my dingy bedroom. If one could call it that. The small rectangle was only big enough for a bed, desk and wardrobe (not a war-dobe or spare oo-m). The grimy on the window made it nigh on impossible to see out of it, not that I wanted to anyway, the fiery pits that delved deep into the earth were not a pleasing sight. My creaky bed was a mere mattress on the dust covered floor. The thin blanket preserved little of my body heat, let alone keep in the warmth of the outside world. Oak wood and pine made up my desk, the one uplifting object in my room, sketches of creatures and places littered its surface, while rare artefacts such as stones, feathers, leaves and fossils were clustered on the inside. One entire wall was dedicated to weapons, my collection ranging from sharp throwing spears and arrows, to knives like razors and sling-shots that threw pain. I grabbed a draw-string bag, the green hew of it matched my eyes. As I did not own any dresses, I threw the few shirts that were in my possession into it, filling the small bag almost to the top. It was a good thing that the pants (by pants I don't mean underwere) that I folded on top of them left room at the top for some squares of bread and water. I slung my wooden bow over my right shoulder and spun my black daggers around, before hurling them at the door. One of them wedged in between the panels, the same place that it always did. The other, however, did not. I walked over, it had lodged in the wooden wall, I twisted the handle to loosen the dagger. The blade fell in my hand. But to my horror, so did some of the wooden panelling. Panicking and not thinking, I rushed over to examine the wound. A three inch piece had snapped clean off. Coal black wall was showing underneath. I could not begin to describe my fear, I the White wizard saw this, the punishment would be severe. The clock on my desk informed me of the time: quarter past eight. That gave me forty-five minutes to get ready. Then I remembered the wall that had an ominous hole in it. A black cavern lurked behind it, like a dark cave. As I inspected it closer, a ruby streak caught my eye. Reaching out to touch it, adrenaline coursed through me, what looked like thin rivers of red were running through the dark stone. I took the wooden wall under my nails and pulled. A chunk, this time about a foot and a half long, broke off into my hands. I no longer cared if this wall was seen, I was leaving today, if Gandalf's plan succeed, I will never feel the wrath of Saruman again!
                       After tearing at the wall for almost half an hour, hands bleeding and scratched, I stepped back to look at the single word written in the wall in red ink. A name and date was what I saw: tauriel  08/20/57ta  "tauriel, September twentieth, fifty seven third age." I said outloud.

Final word count:1068😌