The Great Water
By Yavie
"'We never went that way, but they say it goes a hundred leagues, until you can see the Great Water that is never still. There are lots of fishes there, and big birds eat fishes: nice birds: but we never went there, alas no! we never had a chance."
Gollum, "The Black Gate is Closed" (J.R.R. Tolkien)
Hushhh, hushhh.
He waited until the hated Yellow Face, weary of tormenting those below, went to Her bed behind the hills. The White Face followed, and he shook his fist at the skies from his refuge among the stones. At long last, the sky was devoid of any light but the distant pinpricks of stars.
Before daring to set foot outside of the small cool cave that he had inhabited through the heat of the day, he thrust his dark head out and craned his neck about to glance for any sign of another soul. There was nothing. Pleased, he padded out of the cave, his nose snuffling for any dainty morsels to be found.
Hushhh.
The creature halted momentarily as his fingers inched onto the soft sand. He blinked at the ground, contemplating, his eyes vaguely luminescent in the inky dark. The sand was strangely pleasing to his bare feet and hands after so long, so very long of crawling through rock and shale. Something flickered dimly in the back of his mind, a long forgotten sensation. Once before he had felt such lovely soft ground on his weary feet, such a pleasing moist breeze, long ago. He absently traced one long finger through the sand as he hesitated at the mouth of the cave, sketching a nonsensical design.
Shaking his head, the shriveled creature crept from his refuge among the stones, lamp-like eyes scanning the sand for any sign of movement. Great waves hissed and whispered upon the shore like many beckoning hands. Husshhh, hushhh, they crooned. He moved on hands and feet toward the shoreline.
Husshhh. Beneath the whispers of the waves, he discerned another sound—a slight chuckling squawk and a soft rustle. It was a bird, but one that was strange to the creature. Large and ivory-pale, it sat upon a pebbled nest perched atop a boulder. A pale tongue flickered out between the creature's lips, and he crept steadily closer.
Husshhh.
He was silent in his work. The strange bird did not hear his approach, and it could barely squeal as his long fingers wrapped around its neck. He stared down at the feebly flapping bird, fancying that its eyes bulged in terror. The chicks chirped indignantly as they were exposed to the prying chill of the night air.
Husshhh.
"Cruel it is, yesss?" He licked the last of his meal from his lips, watching as the bewildered chicks huddled further into the swiftly-fading warmth of their nest. "Nothing staysss, does it, my loves?" His eyes followed the awkward movements of the chicks with vague interest, and he crouched beside the boulder. The waves' whispers drew his gaze for a moment, and his luminescent stare fell upon the water. The water was ebony-black, though faint wisps of starlight rode upon the roiling froth of the waves. Husshh, the waves sang. Husshhh.
His long fingers twitched. "Cruel it is, my loves."
Come dawn, not a down feather would mark the lonely pile of stones.
End.