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.

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(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.

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The end for now

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