DISCLAIMER: I do not own LOTR. If anyone wants to give it to me, however, I
shall gladly take it. My b'day is in July.
NOTE: My name is Abby and I shall be your fanfiction writer for today, and hopefully for a while. To those of you who have read my other first chapter, I promise this one is much better, and I have an idea of where this is going to go. I love the idea! Also, it may not seem very "Lord of the Rings"-ish, yet, but please hang tight. Your favorite characters will come in soon. Please review! Enjoy!
"I shall never see her again."
An old man sat in his room, the air dank and dark. His great gray hair still had spots of black in it, but that was from the soot that came from his fireplace. His hands were not yet those that were crippled with years of work, yet they were callused and on their way to such an end. His face was deep with crinkles, long past laugh lines and even past those lines of worry that most parents seem to possess. These creases were from a much deeper hurt than worry, though the answer lied in his parenthood.
"You shall, one day. I will, too."
The second voice came from a young man with ratty brown curls and a chiseled chin. His expression was one of determination. He lived near the old man's dirty house, his own not being much better. However, he had worked hard for that home. He had built it with his own sweat and blood so that he could marry the girl he had loved since he'd met her. The father of this girl had required him to have a home and a job before her hand would be offered to him in marriage. The father sat before him now.
"How could she have possibly been killed. She is my flesh and blood. Don't you think I would know in my heart when my own daughter is dead? I should, but it does not feel so. But... that—" he broke off, unable to speak.
"Sir," the man kneeled down next to who had almost been his father-in-law, "I understand your pain. I cannot understand it either, but she is dead— You know she could not have survived after losing that much blood."
"Yes, but—"
"Sir! She is dead! The orcs took her when they raided the village! Her cloak was soaked in blood when we found it! She cannot come back!" The man was almost crying now as the father's face fell, in sudden realization that his daughter was dead.
"You said we will see her again, though... What did you mean by that, Armir, if not that she is alive? You must have had hope."
"I was only speaking to the afterlife, Sir. I am as sorry as you that she is gone. I loved her, and I had just finished building the house for her when... Well, I am sorry."
The old man patted Armir's hand. As the young man left, with tears in his eyes and a dry sob in his throat, the father put his head in his hands.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
And yet, she was not dead.
The orcs had come to raid the town, yes, but she had not been taken by them. She had seen her chance to escape, and she had taken it. She knew that Armir was a good man, but she did not love him. He had been a close friend until his marriage proposal. Now...
She had needed to escape. Armir had just left her home after telling her father of the completed house when the orcs had come. She knew that that would be her only chance to leave. So, she left.
Her perfect plan soon turned into a nightmare as a small pack of orcs found her, traveling without an escort or even a horse. They seized the chance and attacked. She pulled her sword from her belt and defended herself. The sword had been her father's, but it had "mysteriously" gone missing in a previous year. Her practicing behind closed doors was to help her when the time came to protect herself. Now, it did its duty.
She slashed right and left. The blade connected with orc flesh, tearing it loose from bodies. Blood splattered and teeth gnashed. She had little technique, but the sharp blade and pure, brute force were her friends.
Soon, all of the orcs were dead.
Looking at all of the carnage around her, she felt no urge to throw up. She felt nothing at all except happiness at being alive. She wiped the blade of the battered, old sword with her cloak, and then she thought of an idea.
She took off her cloak. Slicing one of the orcs open, she spilt its blood on it, soaking it. Once she was satisfied with her handiwork, she headed the way the larger group of orcs had gone. Finding their camp, she watched them from a distance. As soon as they left in the morning, she carefully arranged the cloak so searchers would believe her dead. Her careful messiness made it seem as if the cloak had been tossed carelessly on the ground.
The blood was beginning to cry and crust on the cloak. This had been her plan since she had begun to formulate the idea. It would seem to the searchers that she had been wounded early on and finally killed. There would be no remains left, if the orcs were hungry.
She wiped her hands off on her dress and picked up her small pack. It was a long road ahead of her, and she had no idea where it would lead. She just hoped it was somewhere better than from where she had come.
NOTE: My name is Abby and I shall be your fanfiction writer for today, and hopefully for a while. To those of you who have read my other first chapter, I promise this one is much better, and I have an idea of where this is going to go. I love the idea! Also, it may not seem very "Lord of the Rings"-ish, yet, but please hang tight. Your favorite characters will come in soon. Please review! Enjoy!
"I shall never see her again."
An old man sat in his room, the air dank and dark. His great gray hair still had spots of black in it, but that was from the soot that came from his fireplace. His hands were not yet those that were crippled with years of work, yet they were callused and on their way to such an end. His face was deep with crinkles, long past laugh lines and even past those lines of worry that most parents seem to possess. These creases were from a much deeper hurt than worry, though the answer lied in his parenthood.
"You shall, one day. I will, too."
The second voice came from a young man with ratty brown curls and a chiseled chin. His expression was one of determination. He lived near the old man's dirty house, his own not being much better. However, he had worked hard for that home. He had built it with his own sweat and blood so that he could marry the girl he had loved since he'd met her. The father of this girl had required him to have a home and a job before her hand would be offered to him in marriage. The father sat before him now.
"How could she have possibly been killed. She is my flesh and blood. Don't you think I would know in my heart when my own daughter is dead? I should, but it does not feel so. But... that—" he broke off, unable to speak.
"Sir," the man kneeled down next to who had almost been his father-in-law, "I understand your pain. I cannot understand it either, but she is dead— You know she could not have survived after losing that much blood."
"Yes, but—"
"Sir! She is dead! The orcs took her when they raided the village! Her cloak was soaked in blood when we found it! She cannot come back!" The man was almost crying now as the father's face fell, in sudden realization that his daughter was dead.
"You said we will see her again, though... What did you mean by that, Armir, if not that she is alive? You must have had hope."
"I was only speaking to the afterlife, Sir. I am as sorry as you that she is gone. I loved her, and I had just finished building the house for her when... Well, I am sorry."
The old man patted Armir's hand. As the young man left, with tears in his eyes and a dry sob in his throat, the father put his head in his hands.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
And yet, she was not dead.
The orcs had come to raid the town, yes, but she had not been taken by them. She had seen her chance to escape, and she had taken it. She knew that Armir was a good man, but she did not love him. He had been a close friend until his marriage proposal. Now...
She had needed to escape. Armir had just left her home after telling her father of the completed house when the orcs had come. She knew that that would be her only chance to leave. So, she left.
Her perfect plan soon turned into a nightmare as a small pack of orcs found her, traveling without an escort or even a horse. They seized the chance and attacked. She pulled her sword from her belt and defended herself. The sword had been her father's, but it had "mysteriously" gone missing in a previous year. Her practicing behind closed doors was to help her when the time came to protect herself. Now, it did its duty.
She slashed right and left. The blade connected with orc flesh, tearing it loose from bodies. Blood splattered and teeth gnashed. She had little technique, but the sharp blade and pure, brute force were her friends.
Soon, all of the orcs were dead.
Looking at all of the carnage around her, she felt no urge to throw up. She felt nothing at all except happiness at being alive. She wiped the blade of the battered, old sword with her cloak, and then she thought of an idea.
She took off her cloak. Slicing one of the orcs open, she spilt its blood on it, soaking it. Once she was satisfied with her handiwork, she headed the way the larger group of orcs had gone. Finding their camp, she watched them from a distance. As soon as they left in the morning, she carefully arranged the cloak so searchers would believe her dead. Her careful messiness made it seem as if the cloak had been tossed carelessly on the ground.
The blood was beginning to cry and crust on the cloak. This had been her plan since she had begun to formulate the idea. It would seem to the searchers that she had been wounded early on and finally killed. There would be no remains left, if the orcs were hungry.
She wiped her hands off on her dress and picked up her small pack. It was a long road ahead of her, and she had no idea where it would lead. She just hoped it was somewhere better than from where she had come.