A/N: My last fic SUCKED!!!! So now I'm going to try to wash the stench of
failure off of me. This is my first LOTR fiction, don't worry I read the
books, unlike some people I know. *Cough Legolas isn't blond cough* (*****
= a change in thought) I'm not even going to ATTEMPT to put it in Tolkien's
style of writing.
DISCLAIMER: JRR Tolkein owns LOTR, although technically it all happened and history doesn't belong to anybody.that includes me. I believe I got the point across.
She lunged forward sword in hand. She was the daughter of The King and moved with the elf-like beauty of her mother. Her gray eyes found the weakest point in the huge body of armor in front of her. The battle was done. She struck out like a snake unleashing one final deadly strike. Without a cry her enemy toppled, and the suit of armor collapsed onto the hall tile with a lasting bang. The metal scattered across the floor loudly.
Neathtiu * of Gondor grimaced at the sound. The metal took a century to echo off the halls, it reverberated off the doors and stained glass windows. And in those windows each frame of purple and black and green shook dangerously as if they couldn't make up their minds whether to fall or not. The young princess dropped the sword that she had taken from her brother allowing it too to fall with a much smaller clatter.
"What was that noise?" Neathtiu turned, a tall thin elvish frame stood in a near doorway that lead to the library. The girl was her sister, her elder twin, Ainamír* who stood now in a snow-white arch, which matched the many arches that spanned the halls of the castle. Her sister was tall, and thin, with hair that matched that of their mother, The Queen Arwen. Her eyes were blue and piercing, very much unlike her sister's who had the gray eyes of the Dúnadain. Ainamír was dressed all in green, one pointed ear poking free of her perfect hair. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the fallen armor, that hadn't instigated the fight it was challenged to. "Did you fell this?" Ainamír asked her sister.
"No," Neathtiu shook her head her coal-black hair bounced on her shoulders, "I came down the hall from my chambers and here lay the armor." Ainamír studied her sister questionably; her star like eyes followed the armor that lay across the tile hall. The torchlight sent eerie shadows across the passage they brought out a sinister apparition on days like that, when the daylight that leaked in from the high windows was blocked by a thick layer of gray clouds and soup like fog. Her sharp eyes caught sight their brother's sword; His name was Araer* and was had spent nearly forty summers in Middle Earth.
"It is doubtful," began Ainamír, flipping through the pages of a red bound book that she held in one hand, "that Araer a noble prince would act so young as to fight with a suit of armor, and yet his sword lays at your feet."
"Age is but a number," shrugged Neathtiu.
"Indeed, for most seventeen springs would show maturity, but for you, sister, its teachings have been wasted," she pointed to the fallen armor, "if you are caught near your misdeed I am doubtful our guardians will be pleased with you." With that she turned on her small white feet and floated gracefully down the hall her royal head held high, the silver band imbedded with many shimmering sapphires sat upon it.
Neathtiu was not angered with her sister, for she had grown too fast and Neathtiu pitied her. But Neathtiu pitied herself as well she believed she was born into the wrong gender. No woman of Gondor had amazing adventures, and being a princess in all of her seventeen years she hadn't left the palace. She lifted her brother's sword and held it tightly. Neathtiu swung it above her head, and left the scene. Her enemy had fallen and the world was again safe.
****
The King Elessar sat at the head of the aged oak table that his ancestors had also sat at. He looked down the table at his children, who one day they would sit where he was now. He smiled at the sight of each of them. Araer was eldest; he was tall and calm with eyes that matched the sea on a still day. He looked younger then he was and could have passed for a young man of twenty. Atop his head he wore a silver circlet, no stones lay in the metal but a silver star lay on his forehead. Seated next to his son was his eldest daughter; she was five years younger then her brother. Melethril* was an elf. She spoke in her soft voice to Araer. Her hair was a wooden-brown color and her eyes were huge and green like the treetops of Fangorn. Melethril had an air about her that reminded you of the woodland on warm summer afternoons when the birds were singing and the flowers were in bloom. She wore a silver tiara with two emeralds glistening out of it like flowers.
On the other side of the table seated next to his wife, Arwen, was Ainamír who was only seventeen. But his gray eyes widened a little when he continued his silent sweep of the table. One of the red and gold seats was empty, Neathtiu was absent. Aragorn could picture his youngest in his mind. She too had gray eyes but they didn't hold the calm like he and his son's. They were fiery and held streaks of wild orange. Her eyes reflected her personality, many a thing crashed to the floor at the hand of a young adventurer hunting orcs in Minas Tirith.
The King opened his mouth to say something but the huge wooden doors at the end of the hall swung open. "Sorry father, I, I needed to go to, to get something!" His youngest stood in the doorway looking slightly disheveled. She nodded content with her excuse, a few black hairs escaping her bun. She had grime smeared on her black shoes; her silver diadem lay on a slant, one of the rubies had been mislaid. He let out a sigh of relief.
"It is well," he gestured toward the empty chair, "will you join us?"
"Yes, of course, father, I'm sorry again," she bowed before fixing her crown with one thin hand and sat next to her sister, Ainamír, who gave her a reproachful look as Neathtiu began to spoon food onto her golden plate.
DISCLAIMER: JRR Tolkein owns LOTR, although technically it all happened and history doesn't belong to anybody.that includes me. I believe I got the point across.
She lunged forward sword in hand. She was the daughter of The King and moved with the elf-like beauty of her mother. Her gray eyes found the weakest point in the huge body of armor in front of her. The battle was done. She struck out like a snake unleashing one final deadly strike. Without a cry her enemy toppled, and the suit of armor collapsed onto the hall tile with a lasting bang. The metal scattered across the floor loudly.
Neathtiu * of Gondor grimaced at the sound. The metal took a century to echo off the halls, it reverberated off the doors and stained glass windows. And in those windows each frame of purple and black and green shook dangerously as if they couldn't make up their minds whether to fall or not. The young princess dropped the sword that she had taken from her brother allowing it too to fall with a much smaller clatter.
"What was that noise?" Neathtiu turned, a tall thin elvish frame stood in a near doorway that lead to the library. The girl was her sister, her elder twin, Ainamír* who stood now in a snow-white arch, which matched the many arches that spanned the halls of the castle. Her sister was tall, and thin, with hair that matched that of their mother, The Queen Arwen. Her eyes were blue and piercing, very much unlike her sister's who had the gray eyes of the Dúnadain. Ainamír was dressed all in green, one pointed ear poking free of her perfect hair. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the fallen armor, that hadn't instigated the fight it was challenged to. "Did you fell this?" Ainamír asked her sister.
"No," Neathtiu shook her head her coal-black hair bounced on her shoulders, "I came down the hall from my chambers and here lay the armor." Ainamír studied her sister questionably; her star like eyes followed the armor that lay across the tile hall. The torchlight sent eerie shadows across the passage they brought out a sinister apparition on days like that, when the daylight that leaked in from the high windows was blocked by a thick layer of gray clouds and soup like fog. Her sharp eyes caught sight their brother's sword; His name was Araer* and was had spent nearly forty summers in Middle Earth.
"It is doubtful," began Ainamír, flipping through the pages of a red bound book that she held in one hand, "that Araer a noble prince would act so young as to fight with a suit of armor, and yet his sword lays at your feet."
"Age is but a number," shrugged Neathtiu.
"Indeed, for most seventeen springs would show maturity, but for you, sister, its teachings have been wasted," she pointed to the fallen armor, "if you are caught near your misdeed I am doubtful our guardians will be pleased with you." With that she turned on her small white feet and floated gracefully down the hall her royal head held high, the silver band imbedded with many shimmering sapphires sat upon it.
Neathtiu was not angered with her sister, for she had grown too fast and Neathtiu pitied her. But Neathtiu pitied herself as well she believed she was born into the wrong gender. No woman of Gondor had amazing adventures, and being a princess in all of her seventeen years she hadn't left the palace. She lifted her brother's sword and held it tightly. Neathtiu swung it above her head, and left the scene. Her enemy had fallen and the world was again safe.
****
The King Elessar sat at the head of the aged oak table that his ancestors had also sat at. He looked down the table at his children, who one day they would sit where he was now. He smiled at the sight of each of them. Araer was eldest; he was tall and calm with eyes that matched the sea on a still day. He looked younger then he was and could have passed for a young man of twenty. Atop his head he wore a silver circlet, no stones lay in the metal but a silver star lay on his forehead. Seated next to his son was his eldest daughter; she was five years younger then her brother. Melethril* was an elf. She spoke in her soft voice to Araer. Her hair was a wooden-brown color and her eyes were huge and green like the treetops of Fangorn. Melethril had an air about her that reminded you of the woodland on warm summer afternoons when the birds were singing and the flowers were in bloom. She wore a silver tiara with two emeralds glistening out of it like flowers.
On the other side of the table seated next to his wife, Arwen, was Ainamír who was only seventeen. But his gray eyes widened a little when he continued his silent sweep of the table. One of the red and gold seats was empty, Neathtiu was absent. Aragorn could picture his youngest in his mind. She too had gray eyes but they didn't hold the calm like he and his son's. They were fiery and held streaks of wild orange. Her eyes reflected her personality, many a thing crashed to the floor at the hand of a young adventurer hunting orcs in Minas Tirith.
The King opened his mouth to say something but the huge wooden doors at the end of the hall swung open. "Sorry father, I, I needed to go to, to get something!" His youngest stood in the doorway looking slightly disheveled. She nodded content with her excuse, a few black hairs escaping her bun. She had grime smeared on her black shoes; her silver diadem lay on a slant, one of the rubies had been mislaid. He let out a sigh of relief.
"It is well," he gestured toward the empty chair, "will you join us?"
"Yes, of course, father, I'm sorry again," she bowed before fixing her crown with one thin hand and sat next to her sister, Ainamír, who gave her a reproachful look as Neathtiu began to spoon food onto her golden plate.