A peaceful reprieve
Disclaimer: I only own Meneldil and his men. The rest of the characters and the places you can recognize are Tolkien's.
Summary: On a rainy evening, Meneldil is musing in a room in Bree, thinking of his nature and his possible future.
The village was just a small human peasants one. It was rather peaceful, and its inhabitants went on their daily routine when the sun was out. When it was raining, however, most men tended to group in the town's taverns, like the Prancing Pony.
It was one of those day, when the sky had decided not to be so bright and when thunder lit the pitch-black sky in flashes of white and tremendous sounds. The tavern had been quickly overcrowded by the men of the town, and other travellrs, passers-by who booked in for the night. The tavern was also a replica of an hotel. Today, it had welcomed a group of strangers, whom most inhabitants distrusted. Most of them were richly tanned, and wore dark red or brown tunics. They looked like ridding rangers, but Bree's people wasn't so naive to believe this image: they were soldiers, some even killers on the loose. They were a dozen, and their leader was the strongest, or so they said. His men were having the time of their life downstairs, in the "living room", with girls with...free manners, if one could say that .Their leader was nowhere to be seen.
Effectively, he was in one of the rooms upstairs, alone. The room was scarcely empty, except from a bed and a mirror siding a wall. The leader of the warriors looked outside, as a bolt of thunder rang, barely shut down by the music below.
Meneldil looked at himself in the mirror, sighing. It reflected the image of a being, a complete stranger to him. One could see there was something to that leader, that didn't make him a mortal. A sort of aura, small but still perceptible, could be drawn out of the leader's body. His long, black, flowing hair was all tangled, and were in desperate need of a bath. One could see it had once been tied in braids, but what was left couldn't be called such. It was as though looking at a killer on the loose, all muddy and dirty from days and nights outside. Meneldil pushed his hair behind his ears and followed with his fingers his ears' peculiar shape. They were pointed at the end, except the left who had been badly cut in an upsidedown triangle manner, like a cat's after a battle with another one.
But you could still see that Meneldil was an elf. His once lean body was now only made of skin and bones, and in some chosen parts, visible muscles. He sighed again. What would be his old friends reactions if he came back home now? They will probably not forgive him and put him in a cellar.
Not that I am the one to blame them, the leader thought. The last decenny he'd spent in the wild had been full of dark deeds and blood and suffering. 'Twas why most people of this town distrusted him and his men. They were not liked in the world of men, but people were too afraid to refuse them shelter on days like this, so most complied, praying to be spared should these men get excited. While Meneldil was their leader, he was less prompt to kill. When his men where in a franzy, he would only stay a liitle away from them, on his horse, watching every one of them. Once things got too far, he would bark out orders and was immediately rewarded by silence and obedience. But the last time his men had behaved such, it had been much worse. It had been rainy, on that day, too. He could still remember.
They were in full winter, and the snow was covering the ground. the horses had had a hard time walking through it, and Meneldil had decided that they should rest in the next village.
The one they've stopped to was small, much smaller than Bree, but still big enough to have stables and one tavern. Rain started falling as they entered the village. Meneldil was about to jump off his horse, when they saw a small boy in the big alley which crossed the town. His eyes widdened in fear, sparkling blue at them. Meneldil hesitated. It was one second too late, and the little boy went running across the village, screaming for help and encouraging people to come out with weapons. There were bangs of doors against walls, and the inhabitants obeyed to their son's leader, carrying spears and other sticks. They swarmed down to them, and their shouts and angry calls excited Meneldil's men.
Before he could stop them, his riders brushed past them in frantic gallops, shouting and laughing, between curses and cries of battles. "Stop!Retreat!" their leader's orders went unheard, and he looked, horrified, as the massacre went under him. A tear escaped one of his eyes, meddling with the rain. Suddenly a clear path was made, as though Meneldil had been alone, and he spotted the boy who had encouraged this, at the far end of the alley. He was staring at him,too.
A sword's tip appeared out of nowhere, cruelly pointing down at the boy.
"NO!" screamed Meneldil, all the while restrainig his horse from panicking, but his cry wasn't heard, and the sword cut through the boy, as though the human had been naught but paper. Tears came to his eyes, and he rfused to let them go. A leader crying would lose the respect his men had for him. He stared out, at the place where the boy had been standing not seconds ago...
Meneldil sat on the bed and took his head in his hands. It was all his fault. There was no going back. One day, someone from his group would decide that he'd had had enough of Meneldil's leadership, and would creep in his sleeping place. He would them kill him silently, and announce to the others that he was the new leader. That day, Meneldil would welcome death, like a long lost comrade, would not fear it, and would gladdly accept it.
A/N: I hope you liked this. All grammar mistakes are mine and only mine. Now, please review...OK? And tell if you liked it or not...and explain why, too. I hate it when people don' say why they like or hate a text. R&R, pleeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaassse!! (I don't want to have only hits)
Jinmorgath