A/N: This is Delirium. It's finally here..... This is short, yes. I'm not
sure how fast I'll be able to update for the next month or so, because I
currently have 3 other WIPs that need updating as well... *sigh* What can I
say, always have been a multi-tasker...
Legolas, Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn, and Arwen will make appearances. Who ever else may turn up along the way, I don't know. That much is out of my control.
This is Angst, mainly, but it always has some content that could be considered Sci-fi or Supernatural...You'll see...That is, if it ever gets updated past this and doesn't die....Hee hee...
Prologue.
She sobbed with a choke in the solitude of her chambers. Her back was turned to the door, as she sat bent over with her head bowed in despair. Her golden hair hid her face, spilling down her back and o'er her shoulders. She had not wept this way since Theodred died – this sort of women's weeping. But in this time, she was indeed a woman and not the shield maiden warrior she had always prided herself in being. She was no longer proud or invincible; she was weak now. She was losing her grip on stability, as she had already lost her composure. It was hopeless, she thought in a small tone. Hopeless. A whimper rattled her chest as she thought this, her fingers rubbing a white handkerchief in her lap. It looked plain against the dark brown, velvet skirt. Even the flowing, ivory sleeves of her gown made the handkerchief look ordinary. It was a folded, simple little handkerchief; one of the corners had a flower embroidered on it. It might've seemed like nothing special compared to all the other prettier things, yet it was the only thing that gave a strange comfort to her.
He watched her from the door. The lamplight was dim in its corner, the only light to accompany the bleak rays streaming down through the crack in the curtains. The flame flickered for an instant and continued to burn for her. He knew she was crying; he had heard her from the other end of the corridor with his pointed ears. He also had a suspicion as to why she cried, but whatever the reason, he loathed to see her in such a state. It wasn't in her nature to despair, and it did not befit her to do either. He lingered in the shadowed doorway still, unsure of what to do. Compassion glimmered in his eyes, as they looked in at her from the shadows. The past few weeks had been no easy thing to bear, even for him. An epidemic had swept through Ithilien with a swift and powerful force. Already, it had claimed many lives and many more still lay ill and dying. None of them knew exactly what the disease was, though it had familiar symptoms to other illnesses. Word had been sent to Minas Tirith, imploring the king for help. He had been unable to come, for his own health must be undoubtedly preserved, but he had offered as much advice as possible. It had been a small help but no match for the epidemic.
With unheard footsteps, he hurried to her side. She didn't sense him approaching, did not turn around. She did not jump, however, or straighten up to greet him. Even as he knelt at her feet, she remained bent. He stilled her hands from fidgeting over the handkerchief and took one of them in his own.
"Eowyn," he breathed. Finally, she looked up from her lap to meet his gaze, her tear-filled eyes distant beyond her hair. Her face was wet, and her lips quivered; his eyes glimmered again with pity. "Why do you weep?" he queried, not meaning to jest. She understood him and paused for a moment, reluctant to speak the truth. Her pursed lips shook together, her eyes welled up to the point where he thought they would burst open with the floodgates of Middle Earth. He looked at her with the expression of a hurt and confused child.
"Oh, Legolas," she whimpered, shuddering. "Faramir's dying." She sounded like a heartbroken little girl, staring at him hopelessly. He only upheld the gaze, not knowing what to say. He knew Faramir had fallen ill, another victim to the epidemic, but he had never thought the prince of Ithilien would come close to death. Perhaps it was because Elves were not a people to despair, or perhaps it was because he had come to love Faramir so deeply that he would not allow himself to consider death a possibility. Whatever the reason, he had not thought of it until this – until Faramir's very wife told him flatly. And he did not realize he was shaking his head.
"No," he said in a hoarse breath. "He cannot be dying. We will heal him, milady." Eowyn shook her head in likeness to him, tears streaming down her face steadily. She closed her eyes as if in pain, still shaking her head and causing her hair to shift against her shoulders. "We'll heal him, milady," he said again. "We will. You'll see. Faramir will be all right in a few days time."
"Stop it," she said quietly, ceasing to shake her head as her eyes opened. "He's dying, Legolas. There's no question about it. The healers have told me; it is hopeless."
"He'll be fine," he murmured. "You'll see. He'll wake up."
"Stop it," Eowyn screamed, getting to her feet in a flurry. Her face flushed, still wet with tears, and the ivory sleeves hid her hands as they fell to the ground. "He's dying, Legolas." Her chest heaved, and he could hear the unsteadiness in her breath. "What is so hard to understand?" He looked as if she had slapped him in the face.
Before another moment could escape, one of the healers stumbled into the doorway, bidding Eowyn accompany him to the healing ward. Things were ill, and her assistance was needed. The shield maiden nodded as she wiped her moist face with the back of her hand and stepped passed Legolas toward the healer. The Elf remained motionless in his place, staring blankly into nothing as realization sunk in. Eowyn fled from her own despair to help in the ward, and it was only when her footsteps sounded against the floor stones in the hall that Legolas turned his head to peer over his shoulder. The lamp flame crackled and swayed inside its glass trap. He was alone.
Legolas, Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn, and Arwen will make appearances. Who ever else may turn up along the way, I don't know. That much is out of my control.
This is Angst, mainly, but it always has some content that could be considered Sci-fi or Supernatural...You'll see...That is, if it ever gets updated past this and doesn't die....Hee hee...
Prologue.
She sobbed with a choke in the solitude of her chambers. Her back was turned to the door, as she sat bent over with her head bowed in despair. Her golden hair hid her face, spilling down her back and o'er her shoulders. She had not wept this way since Theodred died – this sort of women's weeping. But in this time, she was indeed a woman and not the shield maiden warrior she had always prided herself in being. She was no longer proud or invincible; she was weak now. She was losing her grip on stability, as she had already lost her composure. It was hopeless, she thought in a small tone. Hopeless. A whimper rattled her chest as she thought this, her fingers rubbing a white handkerchief in her lap. It looked plain against the dark brown, velvet skirt. Even the flowing, ivory sleeves of her gown made the handkerchief look ordinary. It was a folded, simple little handkerchief; one of the corners had a flower embroidered on it. It might've seemed like nothing special compared to all the other prettier things, yet it was the only thing that gave a strange comfort to her.
He watched her from the door. The lamplight was dim in its corner, the only light to accompany the bleak rays streaming down through the crack in the curtains. The flame flickered for an instant and continued to burn for her. He knew she was crying; he had heard her from the other end of the corridor with his pointed ears. He also had a suspicion as to why she cried, but whatever the reason, he loathed to see her in such a state. It wasn't in her nature to despair, and it did not befit her to do either. He lingered in the shadowed doorway still, unsure of what to do. Compassion glimmered in his eyes, as they looked in at her from the shadows. The past few weeks had been no easy thing to bear, even for him. An epidemic had swept through Ithilien with a swift and powerful force. Already, it had claimed many lives and many more still lay ill and dying. None of them knew exactly what the disease was, though it had familiar symptoms to other illnesses. Word had been sent to Minas Tirith, imploring the king for help. He had been unable to come, for his own health must be undoubtedly preserved, but he had offered as much advice as possible. It had been a small help but no match for the epidemic.
With unheard footsteps, he hurried to her side. She didn't sense him approaching, did not turn around. She did not jump, however, or straighten up to greet him. Even as he knelt at her feet, she remained bent. He stilled her hands from fidgeting over the handkerchief and took one of them in his own.
"Eowyn," he breathed. Finally, she looked up from her lap to meet his gaze, her tear-filled eyes distant beyond her hair. Her face was wet, and her lips quivered; his eyes glimmered again with pity. "Why do you weep?" he queried, not meaning to jest. She understood him and paused for a moment, reluctant to speak the truth. Her pursed lips shook together, her eyes welled up to the point where he thought they would burst open with the floodgates of Middle Earth. He looked at her with the expression of a hurt and confused child.
"Oh, Legolas," she whimpered, shuddering. "Faramir's dying." She sounded like a heartbroken little girl, staring at him hopelessly. He only upheld the gaze, not knowing what to say. He knew Faramir had fallen ill, another victim to the epidemic, but he had never thought the prince of Ithilien would come close to death. Perhaps it was because Elves were not a people to despair, or perhaps it was because he had come to love Faramir so deeply that he would not allow himself to consider death a possibility. Whatever the reason, he had not thought of it until this – until Faramir's very wife told him flatly. And he did not realize he was shaking his head.
"No," he said in a hoarse breath. "He cannot be dying. We will heal him, milady." Eowyn shook her head in likeness to him, tears streaming down her face steadily. She closed her eyes as if in pain, still shaking her head and causing her hair to shift against her shoulders. "We'll heal him, milady," he said again. "We will. You'll see. Faramir will be all right in a few days time."
"Stop it," she said quietly, ceasing to shake her head as her eyes opened. "He's dying, Legolas. There's no question about it. The healers have told me; it is hopeless."
"He'll be fine," he murmured. "You'll see. He'll wake up."
"Stop it," Eowyn screamed, getting to her feet in a flurry. Her face flushed, still wet with tears, and the ivory sleeves hid her hands as they fell to the ground. "He's dying, Legolas." Her chest heaved, and he could hear the unsteadiness in her breath. "What is so hard to understand?" He looked as if she had slapped him in the face.
Before another moment could escape, one of the healers stumbled into the doorway, bidding Eowyn accompany him to the healing ward. Things were ill, and her assistance was needed. The shield maiden nodded as she wiped her moist face with the back of her hand and stepped passed Legolas toward the healer. The Elf remained motionless in his place, staring blankly into nothing as realization sunk in. Eowyn fled from her own despair to help in the ward, and it was only when her footsteps sounded against the floor stones in the hall that Legolas turned his head to peer over his shoulder. The lamp flame crackled and swayed inside its glass trap. He was alone.