First Song
Author: Marina (taelle@mail.rcom.ru)
Pairing: none for now
Rating: G
Dislaimers: This story uses characters and
universe belonging to J.R.R.Tolkien. They
characters are not used for profit. Please view my
story as a respectful comment on the work of a
beloved writer.
Series: first one in future series.
Warning/summary/notes: this story contains an OC,
and more than that, it's from the POV of that OC.
A Tolkien character does appear towards the end of
this (first) story. If the original content is
unacceptable to you, do not read any further.
--------------------------------------------------
(Time and place indefinite)
He wasn't a complete newcomer, not any more, and
went out with the men in all kinds of weather.
Still, it was the longest voyage they ever made,
for the herring avoided the usual places, and
nobody wanted to return home empty.
So they all were tired, men and boys, and women
who almost despaired waiting for them. They
unloaded the boats wearily, making the last effort
to get everything secure and exchanging quiet
jokes, glad to be home at last. And that was when
he heard the song.
He had the best ear in all three fishing villages
along this shore. Sometimes it even made him
useful, able to hear faint rumblings of faraway
storm before others. But that was not what he
hungered for. He strained his ears for music,
scraps of melodies, occasional new songs that a
visitor brought to this half-empty land - the old
ones he knew by heart already.
But he never, ever heard songs like this - not
even at the great fair where they went last year
when the fishing was good. The boy knew he'd
remember that trip as long as he lived. He could
not stop gaping at everything, and managed to
learn six new songs. Father laughed at him, saying
that one day he'd forget eating and drinking for a
song, but the girls started following him
everywhere, giggling stupidly and asking him to
sing.
He did not like to sing. In his head the melody
was perfect in its freedom, but through his mouth
it came out wobbly, mangled and just plain wrong.
And now, frozen in place and making desperate
gestures to quieten his friends horsing around,
the boy thought he'll never even try again.
He came to himself when two fishermen with a heavy
load pushed him aside roughly. Nors made a face
and laughed, and father was calling him already.
But the song was still here, a faint sigh of
beauty brought by the wind.
Still, the chores had to be done, and he hurried
through them as much as he could. Once finished,
he looked at his father pleadingly.
"Can I leave? I'm done here..."
After a careful inspection the permission was
given, though with evident surprise at the fact
that anyone could wish to hurry anywhere but home,
to dinner and bed.
"Youth..." his mother chuckled to his father.
"Didn't you use to take me to all-night dances and
then sail out in the morning?"
But he did not listen any more, already running,
weaving carefully among boats, fish and fishermen
till he was out of the village, the interfering
voices left behind. Ahead were grey-blue sky and
blue-grey sea, and the strip of tide under his
feet.
They did not hear, the boy understood suddenly.
They still did not, could not hear that - or his
father could very well make him stay. Already he
grumbled about growing up and preparing to work
enough to support a family of his own...
He shook his head. That was back in the village,
and therefore not important now. Only sea
mattered, the first and shallowest beginnings of
it making little splashes under his feet, and the
song coming closer, enveloping him in quiet
sadness that seemed separate from any ordinary
sorrow or worry, just a world of its own.
And finally the boy saw him ahead. The singer was
approaching along the coast, a tall dark-haired
man in worn clothes. He did not seem to notice a
stranger waiting for him, only looking at the sea
and the sand and singing in a strange language
that must sound like a song even when spoken.
The boy ran closer, then stopped, feeling that the
noise from his feet was intolerable, and just
stood there, staring in fascination.
The singer approached, and his looks were no
surprise to the boy. It was as if he sent himself
ahead with his voice, so that any listener would
be warned of his beauty and the sadness wrapped
around him like a cloak.
Where did he come from? There were other villages
further to the north, but the singer did not look
like he was from there. He seemed to exist in the
world where there were no other people, only cold
sea and heavy grey sky and the line of tide for
him to follow forever.
Now the boy could see details of him, the unusual
shape of grey eyes, the heavy wave of his hair,
his hands... His hands! He swallowed suddenly,
seeing those hands, still beautiful but so
horribly burned. His own hand moved, as if wanting
to touch, to caress, to make it better...
He must have made a sound, because suddenly the
singer looked at him - and fell silent. "No," the
boy whispered involuntarily, "no..."
The singer stepped closer, looking at him as if
the boy was indeed the first living person he saw
in his life.
"What are you called?" he asked suddenly, his
voice still soft and melodious. He pronounced the
words slowly and precisely, like they were foreign
for him. The boy decided that his native language
must have been that of his song. But what language
could it be? Everyone around spoke the same
tongue...
He blushed, remembering that he did not answer the
question. "My name is Alder, sir."
"Alder?" the singer repeated with a small smile.
"So your people name children for trees, too..."
"Um, yes..." Alder wanted to answer, maybe to ask
something, but all his questions died on his lips,
and he could only look and remember this forever.
"Your song, sir... It was..."
"My song..." the singer repeated slowly and stood
straighter. "Don't call me sir, Alder. Don't call
me anything. Better go home and forget about me."
With those words he turned and went on along the
tide, faster and more resolutely than before. And
silently. Alder stared at his back till he was out
of earshot and then whispered "Forget about you?"
He stepped towards the dry sand and sat down,
hugging his knees and smiling to himself. Where
did the singer think he came from? He must have
been a long time without people around, or he'd
realize that he was going towards Alder's village.
And Alder's mother never refused a stranger
hospitality...
Alder stood up and stretched. He'd better warn
mother. The shoreline here went in a curve, and if
he ran across past the old trees, he'd be at the
village before their guest.
--------------------------------------------------
The end for now
--------------------------------------------------
Author: Marina (taelle@mail.rcom.ru)
Pairing: none for now
Rating: G
Dislaimers: This story uses characters and
universe belonging to J.R.R.Tolkien. They
characters are not used for profit. Please view my
story as a respectful comment on the work of a
beloved writer.
Series: first one in future series.
Warning/summary/notes: this story contains an OC,
and more than that, it's from the POV of that OC.
A Tolkien character does appear towards the end of
this (first) story. If the original content is
unacceptable to you, do not read any further.
--------------------------------------------------
(Time and place indefinite)
He wasn't a complete newcomer, not any more, and
went out with the men in all kinds of weather.
Still, it was the longest voyage they ever made,
for the herring avoided the usual places, and
nobody wanted to return home empty.
So they all were tired, men and boys, and women
who almost despaired waiting for them. They
unloaded the boats wearily, making the last effort
to get everything secure and exchanging quiet
jokes, glad to be home at last. And that was when
he heard the song.
He had the best ear in all three fishing villages
along this shore. Sometimes it even made him
useful, able to hear faint rumblings of faraway
storm before others. But that was not what he
hungered for. He strained his ears for music,
scraps of melodies, occasional new songs that a
visitor brought to this half-empty land - the old
ones he knew by heart already.
But he never, ever heard songs like this - not
even at the great fair where they went last year
when the fishing was good. The boy knew he'd
remember that trip as long as he lived. He could
not stop gaping at everything, and managed to
learn six new songs. Father laughed at him, saying
that one day he'd forget eating and drinking for a
song, but the girls started following him
everywhere, giggling stupidly and asking him to
sing.
He did not like to sing. In his head the melody
was perfect in its freedom, but through his mouth
it came out wobbly, mangled and just plain wrong.
And now, frozen in place and making desperate
gestures to quieten his friends horsing around,
the boy thought he'll never even try again.
He came to himself when two fishermen with a heavy
load pushed him aside roughly. Nors made a face
and laughed, and father was calling him already.
But the song was still here, a faint sigh of
beauty brought by the wind.
Still, the chores had to be done, and he hurried
through them as much as he could. Once finished,
he looked at his father pleadingly.
"Can I leave? I'm done here..."
After a careful inspection the permission was
given, though with evident surprise at the fact
that anyone could wish to hurry anywhere but home,
to dinner and bed.
"Youth..." his mother chuckled to his father.
"Didn't you use to take me to all-night dances and
then sail out in the morning?"
But he did not listen any more, already running,
weaving carefully among boats, fish and fishermen
till he was out of the village, the interfering
voices left behind. Ahead were grey-blue sky and
blue-grey sea, and the strip of tide under his
feet.
They did not hear, the boy understood suddenly.
They still did not, could not hear that - or his
father could very well make him stay. Already he
grumbled about growing up and preparing to work
enough to support a family of his own...
He shook his head. That was back in the village,
and therefore not important now. Only sea
mattered, the first and shallowest beginnings of
it making little splashes under his feet, and the
song coming closer, enveloping him in quiet
sadness that seemed separate from any ordinary
sorrow or worry, just a world of its own.
And finally the boy saw him ahead. The singer was
approaching along the coast, a tall dark-haired
man in worn clothes. He did not seem to notice a
stranger waiting for him, only looking at the sea
and the sand and singing in a strange language
that must sound like a song even when spoken.
The boy ran closer, then stopped, feeling that the
noise from his feet was intolerable, and just
stood there, staring in fascination.
The singer approached, and his looks were no
surprise to the boy. It was as if he sent himself
ahead with his voice, so that any listener would
be warned of his beauty and the sadness wrapped
around him like a cloak.
Where did he come from? There were other villages
further to the north, but the singer did not look
like he was from there. He seemed to exist in the
world where there were no other people, only cold
sea and heavy grey sky and the line of tide for
him to follow forever.
Now the boy could see details of him, the unusual
shape of grey eyes, the heavy wave of his hair,
his hands... His hands! He swallowed suddenly,
seeing those hands, still beautiful but so
horribly burned. His own hand moved, as if wanting
to touch, to caress, to make it better...
He must have made a sound, because suddenly the
singer looked at him - and fell silent. "No," the
boy whispered involuntarily, "no..."
The singer stepped closer, looking at him as if
the boy was indeed the first living person he saw
in his life.
"What are you called?" he asked suddenly, his
voice still soft and melodious. He pronounced the
words slowly and precisely, like they were foreign
for him. The boy decided that his native language
must have been that of his song. But what language
could it be? Everyone around spoke the same
tongue...
He blushed, remembering that he did not answer the
question. "My name is Alder, sir."
"Alder?" the singer repeated with a small smile.
"So your people name children for trees, too..."
"Um, yes..." Alder wanted to answer, maybe to ask
something, but all his questions died on his lips,
and he could only look and remember this forever.
"Your song, sir... It was..."
"My song..." the singer repeated slowly and stood
straighter. "Don't call me sir, Alder. Don't call
me anything. Better go home and forget about me."
With those words he turned and went on along the
tide, faster and more resolutely than before. And
silently. Alder stared at his back till he was out
of earshot and then whispered "Forget about you?"
He stepped towards the dry sand and sat down,
hugging his knees and smiling to himself. Where
did the singer think he came from? He must have
been a long time without people around, or he'd
realize that he was going towards Alder's village.
And Alder's mother never refused a stranger
hospitality...
Alder stood up and stretched. He'd better warn
mother. The shoreline here went in a curve, and if
he ran across past the old trees, he'd be at the
village before their guest.
--------------------------------------------------
The end for now
--------------------------------------------------
