Disclaimer: Not mine. None of it, I think. Wait, I own all OCs. And the story line, but that's about it. Sue me and you will get the amount of money a paid to the average teenager. Which is NOT much, I might add. grumbles about parents
Warning: This first part may seem like I have introduced some horrible Mary Sue, but know now that she will NOT lay a finger on our Legolas. If she does, it is without my permission and she will be severely punished.
Now presenting: Chapter One, in Which we Learn About the Flora of Minas Tirith. Sort of.
The sunlight sparkled down through the gently swaying branches of the trees above, bathing the clearing in a surreal light. The sweet southernly breeze that rocked the boughs also pulled at the maiden's hair, teasing it with a pull here an a puff there. Birds chirped in the trees, but the maiden knew not what kind they were, for she could not identify a bird by it's call alone. The grass was light and springy under her bare white feet, and she walked softly through it, reveling in the feeling. She peered between the branches of bushes and around tree trunks as though searching for something, but was constantly unable to find it.
She would be called pretty by some; plain by others. Her tussled hair was a pale flaxen colour. She absentmindedly pushed a strand back into her bun. She disliked having her hair up, but it was what he preferred. She always did what he liked best; he was, after all, the smarter of the pair, and a true Knight of Gondor. Loyal, honorable, and a good kisser.
The front of her dress began to slip down, and she had to pull it up while looking around to see if anyone was watching. It was just that the front of her dress was so low, not that she lacked anything in the chest area. Actually, she thought herself to be rather plentiful in the womanly way. The tight top occasionally just - came loose - and she only needed to pull it back up to return to her natural, smiling self.
Why did she like her dresses cut so low again? She could not quite recall. Things seemed to slip easily from her mind, and some things she could not grasp at all, like all those plant and flower names he was constantly drilling into her head. She hated plants, but he did not. He knew every single one in the world. That was why she loved him. He understood everything. She grinned, suddenly remembering about her dresses. She had them low because that was the way he liked it! Of course, now that she had thought of that, it slipped away into the vacant recesses of her mind, and would have to be scrounged up again the next time her dress slipped.
Things were like that with her.
She stared around the woods and walked about the small clearing she had been centered in. The silence of the forest was getting annoying. Of course, the birds sang and the animals called, but they were annoying as well. She greatly preferred the bustle of the city where nothing was the same for too long, unlike this unchanging state of natural boredom. What she wanted to do was find him. He was about here somewhere, hidden nearby. She had been looking for - she frowned in thought, which was not a thing she often did - a long time, she concluded, and was getting bored.
Maybe it would be better to return to the city and come back later to find her lover? Yes, that would be best. She was pleased that she had come up with a workable solution all by herself. He must be rubbing off on me, she thought proudly.
She hiked up her trailing skirts and was turning back towards her home when she was suddenly inclined to stay. It was pretty here - the way that the sun sparkled must do wonders for her complexion. She found that she looked best in a bright light. When he found her, she would look stunning. Miranda, he would say, you are beautiful. I want to keep you forever and we will get married. It was her greatest dream that they would be married.
Her thoughts were cut off as something jumped out of the bushes at her, pulling her to the ground. She fell gently with a soft cry, hitting the turf and turning over onto her back. It was beyond her to think that this mysterious attacker could be dangerous, for what could hurt her so close to the home she loved and trusted? She was not worried in the least about what was hiding in those bushes, only wishing that they would hurry up and get out of the vegetation. She was becoming bored again.
Actually, she was right not to be worried. Out of the bushes came her once-hidden lover, grinning with his hair full of sticks. He pounced upon he and kissed her fiercely. She surrendered to the bliss of being with him, her one and only.
Rowell was having fun. Miranda was a nice girl, easily manipulated, yes, but he could look past that. She was, he supposed, the love of his life. Pretty, in a way. Exciting...well, sometimes. Not the most intelligent, but she could learn. Eventually.
He kissed her again, this time roughly, and she pulled away. "What took you so long?" She asked. Her voice was like honey, sweet and plentiful. She could talk on and on for hours without saying a word. It filled all awkward silences when Rowell visited her parents house. She seemed so oblivious to the fact that her parents hated him.
He did love her, though. People wondered at how a girl who was more plain that pretty, more idiotic that witty, and more time consuming than it should be worth, had managed to find such a prince. Rowell was the opposite of everything Miranda was. He was a knight, made so by the King himself several years back, and had been to battle against Haradrim and Orcs. Ladies dropped handkerchiefs when he came into their paths, and giggled about his fine looks when he bent to pick up the lost article as if he could not hear them. He could have any girl in the city, besides the ones with noble blood. And even some of those had come after him once or twice.
He also could string a sentence together without having to think about it first, a feat that was occasionally beyond Miranda.
But he did love her.
The townspeople also wondered how the grandchild of Ioreth had such an ability to mix up even the most distinguishable of plants, constantly confusing pine and juniper. You would think that the granddaughter of a famous healer would be able to make even the simplest sleeping drought, but no. That, too, was beyond her.
"Long, love? That was not long. Only a few minutes." He said as he gently pushed a strand of hair out of her face. She could not do it herself, for her arms were pinned to the ground under him.
A look of confusion passed over her face. "Oh." was all she said, her voice flat. She looked displeased that he had proved her wrong.
"But," he said quickly and in his most loving tone, "even a few seconds away from you seems like an eternity to me."
She still looked displeased.
"Love?" He added. She should be used to me proving her wrong by now, he though cruelly for a second. I do it often enough. She still managed to get a bit mad every time. Once she had ceased talking to him for almost a week when he had corrected he about which way to go to get to the butcher's shop.
The furrow between her perfectly shaped eyebrows disappeared. "It is the same for me. Oh, how I miss you when you are gone!" She giggled, as if she had said something funny. Rowell laughed weakly to humor her.
Miranda sighed with happiness. The contentment was easy to hear. What is she so glad about? he thought. He did not bother to ask. He simply leaned forward and kissed her again. She kissed him back, full of young passion. Her hands came free and reached up to snake around his neck, pulling him closer. Her eyes were shut, so he was free to close his without her wondering whether she was too ugly to gaze at or some other such foolery.
His arms stretched out across the grass, untying her hair from it's knot on the back of her head. As the pale locks tumbled over his wrist, smooth and silky, his outstretched arm brushed against something prickly. He automatically pulled away from it, paying no heed. His mind was busy on other matters, such as where his Miri had learned to kiss like this. He rolled over onto his back, for the moment forgetting about the plant.
Miri was on top of him, eyes still closed. Her hands ran up his back and then into his hair. Suddenly, she stopped and her eyes opened wide. She pulled away sharply and sat up. Rowell sat up as well, and was shocked to see that there were slight tears in Miranda's eyes, just waiting to be released.
"What is it, my love?" He asked softly, moving closer to her. She was holding her wrist and looking positively wretched.
"I hurt my hand," she pouted. She held it out for him to examine. He took it gently. Along the side of her palm, opposite her thumb, were several shallow scratches. They were only a little red, so Rowell concluded that they obviously were not that dangerous and that Miranda was making a big deal out of nothing. Slow tears began to trickle out of the corners of her eyes, even though children received such marks daily without a second thought.
But all he said was, "Oh, those must hurt a bit," She nodded as if she were trying to hold back more tears and bear the pain proudly, "but you should be fine in a while."
She made a soft whimpering noise and softly said, "If you say so."
"Now, let us see what you cut your pretty little hand on," Rowell said as he stood up and walked over to when they had been laying last.
Growing in the middle of a grassy ring, far away from other vegetation, was the only thing that could cut somebody. A small plant grew in a field of green. It could have been a dandelion, except for one simple fact.
It was black.
The leaves were long, such a dandelion, but no stalk grew up the middle. The leaves mearly got smaller and smaller as they grew up the stem. Rowell ran his finger along the edge of one such leaf experimentally. He pulled his finger away sharply when the serrated edges cause a strange, prickly sensation.
It was rather intriguing, in a strange way.
What was this plant? He had never seen such a thing. It seemed familiar, like he may have read about it somewhere, and it seemed to have a special tag on it that had been placed in his memory, saying do not forget this. To bad he had. He would have to take it back to the city for further study. Maybe he had read about it in the great library.
"Rowell?" Came a voice from behind. He sighed inwardly. Miranda never appreciated the necessity of silence when one was thinking. She had never developed an affinity for plants, despite Rowell's attempted to get her interested. She could not understand how wondrous that plants that can heal with their leaves can also kill with their flowers, or how one plant may look like another an be something entirely different, only to be told apart by one who knows the secrets.
He, on the other hand, adored flowers and the like, and had a knack for memorizing names and properties of said flora.
"Coming. I found your attacker." He moved out of the way and indicated the plant.
"Oh," was all she said yet again. She looked up, studying the sky.
He looked up at the sun, and nearly fell over from shock. It was well past midday, and he was supposed to have been on watch a quarter hour ago! He stood up quickly and rushed over to Miranda. "Come, Miri!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her up, ignoring her squeak of protest as his rough fingers ran over her newly-acquired scratches. He pulled her up and started to run out of the clearing.
At the last second, just before that spot of grass had disappeared from view, Rowell turned around and stopped short. Again he ignored Miranda's unladylike sound as she banged into him.
He looked at the sky. It was so late, he would be in trouble anyway. What would a few seconds matter? It was not like he had ever been late before; this was so unusual that they would probably just excuse it. That plant was so interesting. A few seconds would not matter. No, they would not matter at all...
He did not notice that he had long since dropped Miri's hand. He was halfway across the clearing before he even knew he had moved, and the rest of the distance to the plant seemed to take less time than blinking to cross. He knelt down slowly, careful not to crush any of those perfect, strange leaves. He stared at it for some time, transfixed by it's angles and proportions. Time seemed to blur; nothing mattered but memorizing the perfection of this plant.
He dug up around the roots, ignoring the pricks and scars that the plant gauged into him, never once taking eyes of it. Ever so carefully he placed the roots into a rag he had carried around in his pocket since he wiped the breakfast table in the morning. Gently, he folded the cloth around the precious thing and placed it softly back into his pocket, placing a hand over the piece of shirt protectively.
He stayed there in that position, kneeling on the ground with his knees getting dirty and his fingernails coated in soil. If he did not move, no harm could come to the plant he carried in his pocket. Not until he found out what it was.
"Rowell!" A voice came from behind him. It was harsh, being dragged back to reality by such a demanding voice. He turned, an saw Miri waving impatiently for him to come on. He glanced back to the sky. How long had he at here? He jumped up to his feet. The spell cast by the plant was broken, if one could call it a spell. He raced back across the clearing. It seemed to take much longer now than only a few moments - was it a few? - ago.
He grabbed Miranda's hand and dragged her forward without pausing. "Rowell!" She shrieked as he pulled her faster and faster to Minas Tirith.
"Sorry, Miri!" He called back over his shoulder as he ducked a low branch. He jerked Miri down as she came to the branch, makingshe got under it. " It's more than our lives are worth if the Periannath or anyone else shows up at our gates and no one is there to let them in!" Sure, the other guard could open the gate just fine on their own, but it was supposed to be his job.
The King depended on him to make sure the guests arrived safely. Ever since that great War of,the Ring, the King had not seen as much of the other Nine Walkers as he would have liked. It was common knowledge in the city that they were all coming, for the patrols had been doubled in search of any remaining Orc colonies. Word had it that even a few Nazgul had escaped Mordor's destruction, although that could just be gossip. But the King could take no chances; the Nine Walkers had to arrive in safety.
The King used the excuse of his ladies' Begetting Day, but most of the city knew he wished to see those few he had traveled with through one of the worst years Middle earth had ever seen.
Rowell himself had never seen any of the Fellowship. Legends had instantly sprung up over night telling that the Halflings were real, and that they were accompanied by a real Elf and Dwarf. Elves and Dwarves were far more common now in Minas Tirith, but Rowell had only seen a few and spoken to one once.
He raced ahead. The Tower was in sight, and the guards on top of the gates gave a shout. "Rowell! Playing with your maid all this time?" Another called, "You are late. What would the Captain say about this?"
He ignored all the yells and pulled Miranda safely inside the gates. "Go back to your Grandmother and help her with anything she needs," he told her patiently. If he did not, she was as likely to follow him around as to leave.
"But I do not want to help her. She makes me do all the plant work." Miri pouted again. She certainly was getting lots of practice this particular morning.
He drew her into a quick hug. "I know you do not wish to, but you must. Go, now." He pushed her away in the correct direction. She gave a sniff and kept walking, not looking back.
Rowell sighed. He would pay for that later, but right now he was supposed to be at the top of the tower. He turned and ran, sprinting to the top. Hopefully the Captain Mulach would not notice that he had been gone.
As if, a part of his mind told him. He notices everything.
He sighed again. Was it too much to ask for a little hope?
Later that same day, Rowell walked through the castle, searching for the King's great library. He had been there many times before, but the Keep was rather large and had some unusual twists and turns that kept even the residents on their toes.
Left, his mind told him. He went left, and there were the doors. Taller than a man and a half, and almost as wide. The rulers of Gondor had always put much worth on information. He pushed open the heavy doors with only a little effort. As he stepped inside, he was once more swept away by the vastness of this library.
Volume upon volume of book sat on row after row of shelves, each touching the ceiling. Some were so covered in dust it was impossible to read them, or even if they had been touched within the last century. Other were lying open on the tables, waiting for someone to pick them up and place them in their proper spots. The library was empty now. Most of the city would be eating the evening meal, not worrying about what was hidden in some dust old tome.
He approached the section devoted to flora and fauna. There were large books, heavier than he could lift, and some so small he could fit them in his pocket. There were actual plants growing in this section, making it lighter and airier than the rest. To his left grew a potted fern. It had been watered recently, he could tell, because the dirt was still wet.
He paced up and down the shelves, running a finger along the spines of the books, searching for that title. He mouthed the words as he came to the, A History of All Good Beasts, The Way to Wisdom, and even Poisons and Their Uses In Healing.
He at last came to the one he was looking for. In the darkest part of the section there was a little book, bound in black leather and silver. He could fit his hands around it, and yet when he picked it up, it felt heavy. Must be the silver, he thought. He walked over to the nearest table, underneath a window, and set the book down on it. He pulled out the chair slowly, but it still made a screeching noise against the stone floor. He winced at it, and sat down.
The title of the book was in Elvish. He could only make out one word: Edhel. He knew that meant 'Elf.' He opened to book.
As he tried to read the table of contents, he felt a queer burning on his chest. He rubbed it, and found that it was right under the plant. He carefully pulled the thing out of his pocket and set it on the table before him. It was strange. The plant had been there for the better part of the day, and it still looked fresh. If it were possible, Rowell would have said that there were new leaves growing on it, that were more grey than black. He shook his head and looked back to the book.
All the words were in Elvish. He could not read a word of the table of contents. He would have to flip through the book for that picture he had seen...the one of the black plant. He hoped that they were one in the same, the plant in the book and the plant on the table.
He started to turn the pages.
He passed wonderful flowers with colourful blossoms, and strange plants covered in spikes. At last, half way through the book, he found it. A black plant with long black leaves. The two plants were identical, as if the picture in the book had been drawn from the very specimen that sat before him. He studied the page, trying to decipher the Elvish writing. He had very minimal knowledge of the language, which was more than most of Gondor.
He scanned for words that he knew. One popped up at him: Edain. That meant mortal, did it not? Next to it was the word Valar.
Those were the gods, but he believed it doubled as the word for 'power' in some form of Elvish. Could it mean that this plant brings power to those of the race of Men? It was possible. Other plants did such things.
Curiosity overwhelmed him. This could be his answer to everything. If this plant did bring strength to Men, he could become the greatest warrior in Minas Tirith! He would have to test this - he frowned at the name, trying to figure it's meaning - Amarlas. The name rolled off his tongue. It had a strange feel, as if this had been the first time any had spoken the name in many years.
He continued reading, looking for other familiar words that could unravel the powers of this plant.
He caught the word Edain again; this time it was near beleg, which he thought to mean 'mighty.' So it did make the owner of this plant powerful. But how did you access the power? He frowned at the amarlas, trying to puzzle out how he could get the power from the plant into himself-
Was he always such an idiot? He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. How do you get anything into your body? You eat it, of course. Or, with leaves such as these, he supposed that they could be steeped in water to make some sort of tea.
Now the tricky part. Could he risk testing this on anyone? First off, he did not know whether this plant could turn dangerous.
Second - he was ashamed to think this - what if the test subject wished to keep the amarlas for their own? He could not stand to see that happen. He had developed a strange fondness for the plant, the way the leaves could slice you skin if you did not know how to handle it, the was that the colour was so unusual. Surrendering it would be impossible.
That settled it. He would have to test it himself.
Before he could do that, he would have to finish reading. Rowell refocused on the page.
Edhel. He was positive that meant Elf. About time they came up, since the whole book was in Elvish. Edhel was surrounded by words he did not understand, like amarth, fuin, and gwath. Amarth sounded like amar, from the title amarlas. So it could not mean anything that bad. So far, it seemed like a safe plant.
The rest of the page was full of incomprehensible words. Idiot elvish, he thought grumpily. I can not understand a word of this mess!
He slammed the book closed and shoved it off to the side. With a sly half smile, he pulled the amarlas closer to him. Strange as it seemed, he felt better the closer the plant was to him. It seemed safer, somehow, for the amarlas and him.
He delicately prodded the leaves, searching on that was new and fresh. His fingers were so shredded as it he had been slicing them with slips of paper all day, but he paid it no heed. He had found his leaf.
Rowell tore a tiny, spike less piece off the very tip and popped it into his mouth.
He gagged on it and resisted the urge to spit the foul thing out. This is for your own good! When comparing the taste other more flavoured items. He came to the conclusion the it was rather like cooking oil mixed in with that white stuff his mother had used to make pies. Vile.
He choked it down. The slimy substance inside the leaf slid it down easily, but it felt as though the goo stuck to the sides of his throat. He shuddered, waiting to see what would happen.
He closed his eyes.
Nothing.
He opened them again.
Nothing.
Long moments passed, and Rowell laughed at himself for being such a fool. He stood up, read to leave and go for dinner. He had not eaten since breakfast that morning, and his stomach was protesting such rude treatment.
He carelessly shoved his chair in as he turned, paying it no mind.
Crunch!
Rowell turned back to the table, wondering what he had just done.
The wooden chair was in splinters, half jammed into the solid stone table. The area of the table nearest the chair was folded in on itself, as if it had been heated and reshaped. The rest of the library sat in peace, except for these remains of a chair and a distorted table.
Rowell walked back to the table, and yanked on the chair. It came out of the stone, but was turned into matchwood when he squeezed the arm rest. His mouth fell open, and he stared like a boy at the ruins before him.
He watched as the splinters ran through his fingers and grinned. The amarlas worked alright.
Alright in deed.
They stood in the shadows, staring up at the well lit library windows. Their cloaks swirled around them, as if moved by a breeze. But the night was calm, with not a puff of air to be felt.
The black hoods obscured their faces, so that any passerby would not recognize them. But the poor traveler who did walk near would not have noticed them except for a chill down the spine accompanied by a sudden desire to be anywhere with a light and laughter.
They stared at the library window.
One might wonder why these shadow creatures desired to spend their evenings looking at a pane of glass. But that one who wonders would not know what was happening behind that pane. They would not know that in that hallow hall of learning and knowledge, a dark force was rising. Or that these creatures were the cause.
In all likelihood, the one who was wondering would probably be dead, for the hooded ones did not wish to be seen, and if you are wondering you have obviously seen them. That would interfere with the plans, and that could not be tolerated.
The shadow in the front moved. It stepped backwards, flanked by four others. They melted into the night, becoming now more than a faint memory to the city.
Until the next appearance, when everything would be set in motion.
End Chapter One.
So, what do you think? Do I show any promise whatsoever, or am I wasting space? Hmmm. Tough question.
Shortening. I don't know whether they had it in Middle Earth, but it would be dificult to bake if they didn't. My advice for the week is do not eat shortening. It tastes really bad. Really, really bad. Do not mistake it for whipped cream, for it will only result in much brushing of the teeth. whistles innocently What are you talking about - of course I haven't done that -