Dawning - by Elwen of the Hidden Valley
Mar. 5th, 2018 12:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Prompt and Category: March 4 - Aubade - A Morning Song
Format:Vingette
Genre:Angst
Rating:Gen
Warnings:None
Characters:Frodo, Sam
Pairings:None
Creator’s Notes:It all belongs to JRR Tolkien.
Summary:Frodo realises that now is the time.
A single trill and Frodo set down his pen, turning to check the mantle timepiece. Five o'clock. Standing, he planted hands to waist and leaned back, emitting a soft groan that blend with several loud pops from his spine. A distant string of sleepy notes brought him to the window but he could see nothing beyond the reflection of his own face, lit by the candle on his desk. For a moment he studied its planes and shadows.
Frodo could see the beginnings of worry lines across his forehead, and once apple cheeks had been replaced by sharp cheekbones and hollows. Full lips were thinned to a line by pain and care, and the eyes staring back at him were crammed with too much memory. He turned away, snuffing out the light source.
Only then did he note that the study was no longer full black and, upon a sudden need for escape, he slipped down the hallway on silent feet and opened wide the front door. It faced due east and there, on the far horizon, beyond the dark outline of lush farmland and still somnolent villages, was a grey light.
A blackbird raised his threnody in a hawthorn hedge nearby, joined by another in the ancient apple tree. Almost as though called forth by that entreaty, the horizon washed pale primrose yellow, that slowly deepened to buttercup gold, cut by one narrow trail of lavender cloud.
Frodo started as a noisy flock of sparrows exploded heavenward from the garden hedge, winging for farmland and breakfast, in a rowdy squabble of chirps and cheeps. Rooks cawed in one of the few remaining stands of old trees along the Bywater road, and he watched them rise, circle once, and then sail out in the tiny sparrows' wake.
The edge of Anar's disk peeped above the hilltops, her light reflected back by fields of ripening wheat. In Hobbiton below, pale wisps of smoke began to rise from chimneys, and in the smial behind he heard the first fretful, snuffling protests, of Elenor Gamgee. No doubt Rose would tend her soon, and Sam would stumble sleepily to the kitchen, to rake out the embers of the range.
I fine thread of sweet melody drew Frodo's gaze to the garden gate, where a little robin sat, bold and bright. He puffed out a scarlet chest, tiny head tilted as jet-bead eyes met Frodo's in challenge. Then he rose into the air on a stuttering flutter of wings, and Frodo spun about to watch as he arrowed away, over the smial, chasing night into the west.
“Mornin' Mr Frodo.” He lowered his gaze to find Sam, still belting his dressing gown as he stood in Bag End's hallway. Sandy brows drew down into a frown. “You ain't been up all night writin' again have you?”
“I'm afraid I have, Sam. But it's nearly finished.” He stepped back into the relative dimness of Bag End. “Come on. I'll give you a hand with first breakfast.”
Frodo would take his letter to the post office after second breakfast. Elrond said that he could be reached by sending correspondence, care of the Prancing Pony in Bree. Autumn would be here soon.
END
Format:Vingette
Genre:Angst
Rating:Gen
Warnings:None
Characters:Frodo, Sam
Pairings:None
Creator’s Notes:It all belongs to JRR Tolkien.
Summary:Frodo realises that now is the time.
A single trill and Frodo set down his pen, turning to check the mantle timepiece. Five o'clock. Standing, he planted hands to waist and leaned back, emitting a soft groan that blend with several loud pops from his spine. A distant string of sleepy notes brought him to the window but he could see nothing beyond the reflection of his own face, lit by the candle on his desk. For a moment he studied its planes and shadows.
Frodo could see the beginnings of worry lines across his forehead, and once apple cheeks had been replaced by sharp cheekbones and hollows. Full lips were thinned to a line by pain and care, and the eyes staring back at him were crammed with too much memory. He turned away, snuffing out the light source.
Only then did he note that the study was no longer full black and, upon a sudden need for escape, he slipped down the hallway on silent feet and opened wide the front door. It faced due east and there, on the far horizon, beyond the dark outline of lush farmland and still somnolent villages, was a grey light.
A blackbird raised his threnody in a hawthorn hedge nearby, joined by another in the ancient apple tree. Almost as though called forth by that entreaty, the horizon washed pale primrose yellow, that slowly deepened to buttercup gold, cut by one narrow trail of lavender cloud.
Frodo started as a noisy flock of sparrows exploded heavenward from the garden hedge, winging for farmland and breakfast, in a rowdy squabble of chirps and cheeps. Rooks cawed in one of the few remaining stands of old trees along the Bywater road, and he watched them rise, circle once, and then sail out in the tiny sparrows' wake.
The edge of Anar's disk peeped above the hilltops, her light reflected back by fields of ripening wheat. In Hobbiton below, pale wisps of smoke began to rise from chimneys, and in the smial behind he heard the first fretful, snuffling protests, of Elenor Gamgee. No doubt Rose would tend her soon, and Sam would stumble sleepily to the kitchen, to rake out the embers of the range.
I fine thread of sweet melody drew Frodo's gaze to the garden gate, where a little robin sat, bold and bright. He puffed out a scarlet chest, tiny head tilted as jet-bead eyes met Frodo's in challenge. Then he rose into the air on a stuttering flutter of wings, and Frodo spun about to watch as he arrowed away, over the smial, chasing night into the west.
“Mornin' Mr Frodo.” He lowered his gaze to find Sam, still belting his dressing gown as he stood in Bag End's hallway. Sandy brows drew down into a frown. “You ain't been up all night writin' again have you?”
“I'm afraid I have, Sam. But it's nearly finished.” He stepped back into the relative dimness of Bag End. “Come on. I'll give you a hand with first breakfast.”
Frodo would take his letter to the post office after second breakfast. Elrond said that he could be reached by sending correspondence, care of the Prancing Pony in Bree. Autumn would be here soon.
END
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Date: 2018-03-05 01:41 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2018-03-05 11:48 pm (UTC)And the decision made, which surely, by now, is a relief.
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Date: 2018-03-06 12:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-03-06 06:26 pm (UTC)Only one harmed by the deadliest evil could ever bear to leave.
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