I had originally come from Arnor, my father's family rangers of the north, but it was my mother's side where I was most proud of my lineage. My mother was a beautiful woman, but they say she danced with the devil. They say she had powers, powers like the master himself. I don't think she ever touched me in her entire life. She would rock me in mid-air, and when I misbehaved, an invisible hand would slap me. My father drank, he didn't love my mother, but, oh, he loved me. My father was Rodeas the Hunter. I am well respected where I come from. Not many people have never heard of Rodeas. But he's dead. Long dead. My mother killed him. She tried to kill me too. But I was too strong.
Knock! Knock! Somebody pounded upon the old wooden door. A man peered through a peephole to the other side. A woman stood there, shivering, the icy rain chilling her tiny body. Her eyes were closed, and she turned her head wildly, as though looking for something. Her mouth was a thin, unhappy line drawn on her pale face. She looked sickly and wan, and the man, warm and contented inside the large house could do nothing but let this poor creature in.
The door opened effortlessly, the young man touching the knob with only his mind. "Come in, come in…" he took the poor lady's soft hand in his own. She limped, and her wounds were revealed, a large gash upon her forehead, and stabs and cuts everywhere else upon her petite body.
"I-I am to weak to heal my wounds, good sir…I have heard that many men live here…men with powers…Let them heal me as I could not myself…" she whispered, falling down upon the marble tile that lined the expensive stone floor.
"Gandalf! Gandalf! Come!" A doorway leading into another hallway opened, and a handsome young man with a very thoughtful expression walked to the young man.
His expression lightened, "Ah, friend Saruman! Listen to this beautiful prose! How sweet and dear the summer's fields-"
"Friend Gandalf! The girl! The girl!" Gandalf broke his gaze from the book to look at the woman.
"Hmm…so I see. She lays on the ground…wet, unhappy…" He looks up and laughs, "What did you do to the poor thing, you bastard?"
Saruman barely smiled. "She is hurt…help me heal her." Gandalf nodded, and the two took their staffs, and crossed them over one another, reciting a spell and a prayer. Her eyes closed slowly, her black curling lashes snapping her black eyes shut.
Gandalf was once more enthralled in a book, as he often was, at the bedside of the lovely young woman. She awoke many days after the incident, when the rain season was just drawing to a close. She was dressed in a ragged black dress and tightly-tied black ankle boots.
Gandalf looked up at her. Her eyes were open. Cocking one brow, he smiled, "Hello." He spoke softly, not wanting scare the woman had she spoken a different language.
She looked up, "Davvrả?"
Gandalf raised another brow, Was this a true language?
"Iin liamoe naevre tyvenre?" Gandalf struggled to understand. Hadn't she spoken Westron at our first meeting? He wondered.
"Do you speak Westron?" he spoke slowly. The young woman stopped her endless speech in this strange language.
"I do, sir," she whispered. It was not her first language. She spoke this language strangely, but her speech was smooth and her words lolled on her tongue.
He was not sure how to greet her, "I am Gandalf."
She smiled, "Gandalf." She repeated with ease. "That is a wonderful name."
He laughed self-consciously, "Why thank you, miss." Gandalf bowed, setting his book down on her bedside table. "Are you hungry?" he asked, offering a bite of an apple.
She stared at the apple, "No…I am not hungry. I do not eat that much."
Gandalf stared at the young woman's willowy stature, "I would say you don't eat enough." He smiled at her gently, handing her the apple.
She looked pathetic, sad, as if she did not take the apple, Gandalf would hurt her. She -carefully, not to touch him, and looking away, as careful not to stare directly into his eyes- took the apple. She twirled the shiny red fruit in between her lithesome fingers, staring at the sparkle the beams of light from the window cast upon it. Opening her mouth, she clamped her white teeth down upon the apple, it crunched and the juices of the fruit were released into her mouth, she jumped at the sweet flavor of the glossy apple. Gandalf silently acknowledged the actions of the girl, puzzled by her behavior. Her teeth severed the bite of apple, and she silently chewed it, her eyes intent upon not looking at Gandalf.
After she had meagerly taken nibbles from the apple, the fruit clutched between her hands, held up to her mouth. Gandalf spoke, "Why do you not look at me, child?" He stroked his pure white goatee, like the arrogant youth he was, running his fingers through, combing his beard for offending bits of food or otherwise that could have let this pale creature think him repulsive or unsanitary.
"It is impolite to stare at a man, for it induces the response that the woman has stronger feelings or tensions for this man than she truly does." She paused, unsure, "One more bruise could kill me. Not just the physical pain, but the mental pain…and dreaming of once lashing out at the criminal hand that would repeatedly beat such a woman." She cowered, waiting for his response.
"I would never hurt you, child. You are a poor woman; your arms so bruised, your scalp dry and your hair turning white from pure stress of the life you have led." He tried to lower his eyes to her gaze, but she broke her stare, trying to shield her eyes from his penetrating gape. "You are a lovely woman, do not hide that."
"What madness has turned your hair white, Sir Gandalf?" she said softly, lifting her gaze, if only so slightly.
"Only genetics…" he rubs his beard, as if contemplating the young woman cross-legged upon the bed before him. She said nothing. "Are you all right?" he tried not to blatantly notice the pus-filled bruises that covered her helpless body. Her skin black from soot and ash, lash marks hidden by her dress.
"I am." She pulled the sheets up further, hiding her wounds. Gandalf's grey eyes studied the woman, peering straight into her soul. A low, sultry gong resounded throughout the walls of the home.
"Dinner," Gandalf looked to the door, two other men waited for him. They motioned for him to leave the side of the girl and eat with them. Gandalf could not refuse a meal when he had not eaten all day. He stood, extending a hand, "Would you join me for dinner?" he smiled down into the face of the frightened girl.
"I would never ruin your meal, sir." She shook her head, declining his invitation.
Gandalf seemed taken aback, "It would be an honor to serve a guest." The woman stared pathetically at him with such large, sad eyes. Gandalf set his hand at his side, staring between the girl and his two friends, impatient and hungry. He gave a grim smile, and rushed to join his friends.
As the door shut, the woman looked to the bedside table. Gandalf's beloved book lay there. She lay a finger the flatten the cover, A Blink in the Eye of Time. She gently picked up the book, opened to the first page, and began to read…
The eye of time is a phrase most commonly used in ballads as a measurement of time. Such as seen most famously in the ballad of King Fahad of 82 – 1…
The book droned on, and the gentle woman read on into the late hours of the night, entranced by this book, so subtle and boring, that she could not bear to put it down.