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b2memB2MeM Prompt and Path: “Night” Anne Bronte (Purple)
Format: ficlet
Genre: hurt/comfort, adventure? (I'm honestly guessing, someone tell me what they think, lol)
Rating:PG-13
Warnings:mentions of offscreen deaths in war.
Characters:Legolas, Gimli, original female character
Pairings:none
Creator’s Notes (optional):Faelivrin is a new OC of mine.
Summary:In the green hills of Gondor, a daughter of the western villages was left behind to die in the night.
I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight
What may not bless my waking eyes!
And then a voice may meet my ear
That death has silenced long ago;
And hope and rapture may appear
Instead of solitude and woe.
Cold in the grave for years has lain
The form it was my bliss to see,
And only dreams can bring again
The darling of my heart to me.
Anne Brontë
TA 3021, Pinnath Gelin, Gondor
Strangers had come to the near-deserted village of Aldamar. Those of Aldamar’s folk that remained were asleep, except for one. Faelivrin was hurting too much to sleep, and it was she who first spotted the intruders. They were clearly trying to be unobtrusive, and yet she knew every face in her village. None walked with hoods up on such a clear night as this, save these two. Faelivrin stared warily at the green-cloaked, well-hooded stranger. The figure said male to her, and yet he was slender as a pliant stalk, what she could see of his face beardless. He was too tall to be a mere boy, though, and yet.…had he spoken to her?
”Pardon, sirs?”
“He said,” the stranger’s shorter, gruff companion said, “tell us how ‘tis ye come to be here, Little One, all alone on the street, with no father or mother.”
“I was very young when the War of the Ring was won, only ten summers old. When the men of the Green Hills marched away with our Lord Hirluin the Fair, their banners flying, to meet their deaths on the Pelennor Fields, my father went with them. So did my husband.”
“Husband?” The stranger’s mellifluous voice was so musical as to be unnatural, and made Faelivrin really look up for the first time. “You were wed at ten years of age? You surely cannot be more than thirteen now?”
“Betrothed, which here in Aldamar is just as binding,” Faelivrin said. “Not that it matters now. He was six years my elder, and we would have wed once I…” She stopped. “And what would Ada say if he heard me telling all my business to strangers?”
“I’ve quite forgotten my manners,” the gruff one huffed; “see you what spending time ‘round this pointy-eared lad does to one. Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service, Mistress.”
“Lady Faelivrin, for what good it does me,” Faelivrin replied. “Camlostiel I have named myself.”
“Do not do so, nethben,” the tall one said, kneeling to raise her from the ground and doffing his cloak to wrap around her shoulders. “Empty-handed you are no longer.”
“Legolas,” Gimli chided, and the Elf-prince merely raised an eyebrow at him.
“I am merely offering aid, Master Dwarf.”
“Is that so, Master Elf. Well, see that Lady Faelivrin doesn’t freeze while I see whether there’s a healer in this Mahal-forsaken place.”
“Say not so, friend. Mahal has surely not forsaken it. He sent you here, did he not?” Legolas replied, and Faelivrin wanted to laugh. It came out as a choking cough, though, one that wracked her wasting frame, and Legolas scooped the child into his arms, searching for the aid of a healer, or at least an herbalist. He had some small skill himself, but he would need supplies!
Faelivrin nestled into her rescuer’s arms, clutching his cloak with withered hands, and tried not to cough on the Elf’s fine tunic. For so long she had prayed for death in the night – but this night, instead, had brought the hope of rescue.
Format: ficlet
Genre: hurt/comfort, adventure? (I'm honestly guessing, someone tell me what they think, lol)
Rating:PG-13
Warnings:mentions of offscreen deaths in war.
Characters:Legolas, Gimli, original female character
Pairings:none
Creator’s Notes (optional):Faelivrin is a new OC of mine.
Summary:In the green hills of Gondor, a daughter of the western villages was left behind to die in the night.
I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight
What may not bless my waking eyes!
And then a voice may meet my ear
That death has silenced long ago;
And hope and rapture may appear
Instead of solitude and woe.
Cold in the grave for years has lain
The form it was my bliss to see,
And only dreams can bring again
The darling of my heart to me.
Anne Brontë
TA 3021, Pinnath Gelin, Gondor
Strangers had come to the near-deserted village of Aldamar. Those of Aldamar’s folk that remained were asleep, except for one. Faelivrin was hurting too much to sleep, and it was she who first spotted the intruders. They were clearly trying to be unobtrusive, and yet she knew every face in her village. None walked with hoods up on such a clear night as this, save these two. Faelivrin stared warily at the green-cloaked, well-hooded stranger. The figure said male to her, and yet he was slender as a pliant stalk, what she could see of his face beardless. He was too tall to be a mere boy, though, and yet.…had he spoken to her?
”Pardon, sirs?”
“He said,” the stranger’s shorter, gruff companion said, “tell us how ‘tis ye come to be here, Little One, all alone on the street, with no father or mother.”
“I was very young when the War of the Ring was won, only ten summers old. When the men of the Green Hills marched away with our Lord Hirluin the Fair, their banners flying, to meet their deaths on the Pelennor Fields, my father went with them. So did my husband.”
“Husband?” The stranger’s mellifluous voice was so musical as to be unnatural, and made Faelivrin really look up for the first time. “You were wed at ten years of age? You surely cannot be more than thirteen now?”
“Betrothed, which here in Aldamar is just as binding,” Faelivrin said. “Not that it matters now. He was six years my elder, and we would have wed once I…” She stopped. “And what would Ada say if he heard me telling all my business to strangers?”
“I’ve quite forgotten my manners,” the gruff one huffed; “see you what spending time ‘round this pointy-eared lad does to one. Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service, Mistress.”
“Lady Faelivrin, for what good it does me,” Faelivrin replied. “Camlostiel I have named myself.”
“Do not do so, nethben,” the tall one said, kneeling to raise her from the ground and doffing his cloak to wrap around her shoulders. “Empty-handed you are no longer.”
“Legolas,” Gimli chided, and the Elf-prince merely raised an eyebrow at him.
“I am merely offering aid, Master Dwarf.”
“Is that so, Master Elf. Well, see that Lady Faelivrin doesn’t freeze while I see whether there’s a healer in this Mahal-forsaken place.”
“Say not so, friend. Mahal has surely not forsaken it. He sent you here, did he not?” Legolas replied, and Faelivrin wanted to laugh. It came out as a choking cough, though, one that wracked her wasting frame, and Legolas scooped the child into his arms, searching for the aid of a healer, or at least an herbalist. He had some small skill himself, but he would need supplies!
Faelivrin nestled into her rescuer’s arms, clutching his cloak with withered hands, and tried not to cough on the Elf’s fine tunic. For so long she had prayed for death in the night – but this night, instead, had brought the hope of rescue.
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