A/N: Hope you enjoy this story. I don't own anything except Nyara and any
other characters you don't recognize. Anyways, reviews are always
appreciated, so let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter One
"Nyara Ravencrow"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
On a normal winter day it might seem unusual for a young woman to be out riding in the rain, but Nyara refused to call herself conventional. Today she rode her mare Marabeth, a steady and reliable horse that Nyara's mother trusted to bear her rebellious daughter safely. She refused her pleas that riding on such a day was unsafe and imprudent, stating that if she stayed inside for every day in Rohan that was unsafe or imprudent she would waste away to nothingness.
Freed for awhile from the constraints placed upon her by her overprotective mother, Nyara rode with reckless abandon; not fast, to be sure, for though she was rebellious and high-spirited, she was not stupid. Marabeth picked her way carefully along the grassy ravine at a slow trot, careful not to step in any holes along the way. Such an injury would mean certain death for the aging mare, and Nyara would risk no hurt to her precious companion.
Hoping against hope that she may yet see an Elf this day, as she had hoped all the other long days of her nineteen years, Nyara rode a long way outside the city's borders; far past the banks of the Snowbourn River toward Fangorn forest, a dark and deserted place where legend told of treefolk dwelling. She had read that they could talk and, if roused, even walk about. People found this laughable, but Nyara had suspicions that the legends of old were not simple fables made up by bored housewives. She believed in them, so strongly that her own mother questioned her stability.
For Nyara this was no great thing. At nineteen years old and as yet unmarried, she was considered something of a spinster, perhaps a bit loony. Tall, cool, and aloof she seemed to passersby, playing a part that she had grown accustomed to over the years. She did not care for fancy dresses or domestic chores, though she wore the dresses and cooked the meals as she was expected to. She cleaned, mended, and attended to all the affairs expected of a lady. Too, she tended the livestock, aided with births of foals in their stables, and worked a substantial garden harvest without complaint.
In her spare time, she read. Her own room was littered with ancient scrolls she'd saved from being thrown out of a library in the great Golden Hall atop the hill, at Edoras. It had once been a seat of royalty, a place where the great kings of Rohan dwelt. Now, it was little more than a pretty building for people to look at. The last of the great Kings had gone nearly a thousand years before. Now, the people had an elected official tend to matters of the kingdom. The system seemed to work out alright, though Nyara sometimes wished they had a good and wise king to rule over them. She longed for things as they had once been.
Some of the parchments she had saved spoke of the Dark Lord Sauron and the War Of The Ring. Those she found the most fascinating, having read the thick pile of papers over and over again, so much that she was nearly positive she could recite the story by rote. She never tired of reading how the Nine Companions, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Aragorn (the great High King of Gondor, come and gone, as legend told, nearly two thousand years before her time), Boromir, Legolas, Gimli Elf-friend, and Gandalf the White had saved Middle-earth from the dominion of Sauron, by way of a magic ring forged thousands of years before. Their trials and triumphs awed her with their tragedy, and inspired her with their victory.
She learned of other great leaders from history. Her own personal heroine, Eowyn Shieldmaiden of Rohan, she never tired of learning about. How she'd gone to battle dressed in men's gear to protect her father and brother, and partly because she was stubborn enough to go despite strict orders for her to stay behind and mind the affairs of her home. Nyara couldn't help but admire her for that.
Then there was Faramir, and Eomer. Prince Imrahil had caught her attention as well, being lordly and of distant Elven blood. There were ruins of a castle by the sea, in Belfalas, that seemed coincidentally in exactly the same location as his was said to be. There with his people, all fair and gray-eyed and of noble bearing, he had aided Aragorn and Gandalf, and all of Middle-earth, in the battle with Sauron.
But what captured her attention above all things were the Elves. She had read every bit of lore on them that she could find, her mind soaking up the knowledge like a sponge. People of her time didn't believe in Elves, or Dwarves, or even the famed Halflings like Frodo and Sam. Objectively, she could see the blood of all three races in the Modern Men that inhabited Middle-earth today. Short, childlike men and women; tall, elegant people that bore an air of regality so noble that one was awestruck by the mere sight of them; and short, bearish, burly men and women with gruff attitudes and short tempers.
Of course, no one would admit such codswallup. It was not only unlikely as far as they were concerned; it was insane. Long ago, Nyara had learned not to spout off about her beliefs and hopes. People still whispered about her as she would pass, wondering if she was of stable mind or if she was crazy. And, just the same, long ago she had learned not to care. She had few friends, but as she had had few friends since her early childhood, she did not miss having more.
Her life was very much routine for the most part. She helped her mother with the daily chores, cooked, read, rode her horse. That was her life. Occasionally she would ride into Edoras for something her mother needed from the markets there, but mostly she spent her time in her room, reading. It was a quiet existence, one she yearned for escape from.
She didn't want to get married and bear children, as most young ladies were expected to do, and most certainly at an earlier age than nineteen. Of course, when your sanity is questioned you don't get many offers of marriage or calls for courting.
Nyara snorted and tossed back her long black hair. Her gray eyes flashed like lightning for a moment before she regained her composure. She wasn't crazy! She knew those old stories to be true, knew it in the deepest parts of her heart. But it didn't matter. There was no proof. Coincidence there was, to be sure, but who would buy coincidence for faith? No one that she had met so far, certainly.
Perhaps one day she would do as she had always dreamed, and set out on a quest to find Elves, and Dwarves, and Halflings. There were old maps of the kingdoms of old, maps that she could surely use to find these ancient races. It didn't sound difficult, but she wasn't thick enough to think that there would be no danger in it. Orcs still abounded in the outer regions of their kingdom. At least a few times a year someone would travel too far and get themselves killed. No one did anything about it either, because most people were content to lead their quiet lives without worrying about the rest of the world. Which, she always wanted to point out, were quite Halfling-like qualities indeed.
However, having no self-defensive skills of any kind, save the ability to kick shins like no one's business, Nyara didn't fancy running into any roving Orc parties. It likely wouldn't turn out well for her in the end, even if she should manage to kill one before it killed her. And dying, despite the neverending doldrums of her life, was not on the top of her list of fun things to do in her spare time.
So, in the meantime, she was content to read and dream about a life on her own. Dreams were a wonderful substitute for reality, she had always believed.
Finding herself quite far indeed from the Snowbourn, she turned Marabeth back toward home. It would be a good hour before she made it back home. A quick look at the sun told her she would be nearly on time for dinner if she hurried.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Haldir, your time has come," said a deep voice around him. Haldir looked up, seeing nothing but trees as far as his keen eyes could see. But the voice remained. A sudden knowing came upon him, and he knew that Lord Mandos was giving him his chance to return home, to Middle-earth, or to pass on and live forever in Elvenhome.
"Have you made your decision?" the voice asked of him.
Haldir stood and brushed off his long robes. Scarlet they were, the same robes he had died in so many centuries before. Surely Middle-earth must have changed greatly in so long a time.
"The Elves are mostly gone from Middle-earth," Haldir spoke aloud, his velvet voice, most characteristic of Elves, cutting across the crisp air before him. The voice made no reply, but he sensed it waiting. "There is something that you wish for me to do."
"Yes, Haldir, the Eldar have appointed a task for you. Have you made your decision?" it asked of him once more.
Haldir nodded. "Send me back," he said, and the world faded away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hope you enjoyed! More to come soon!
~Rhiana~
other characters you don't recognize. Anyways, reviews are always
appreciated, so let me know what you think!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter One
"Nyara Ravencrow"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
On a normal winter day it might seem unusual for a young woman to be out riding in the rain, but Nyara refused to call herself conventional. Today she rode her mare Marabeth, a steady and reliable horse that Nyara's mother trusted to bear her rebellious daughter safely. She refused her pleas that riding on such a day was unsafe and imprudent, stating that if she stayed inside for every day in Rohan that was unsafe or imprudent she would waste away to nothingness.
Freed for awhile from the constraints placed upon her by her overprotective mother, Nyara rode with reckless abandon; not fast, to be sure, for though she was rebellious and high-spirited, she was not stupid. Marabeth picked her way carefully along the grassy ravine at a slow trot, careful not to step in any holes along the way. Such an injury would mean certain death for the aging mare, and Nyara would risk no hurt to her precious companion.
Hoping against hope that she may yet see an Elf this day, as she had hoped all the other long days of her nineteen years, Nyara rode a long way outside the city's borders; far past the banks of the Snowbourn River toward Fangorn forest, a dark and deserted place where legend told of treefolk dwelling. She had read that they could talk and, if roused, even walk about. People found this laughable, but Nyara had suspicions that the legends of old were not simple fables made up by bored housewives. She believed in them, so strongly that her own mother questioned her stability.
For Nyara this was no great thing. At nineteen years old and as yet unmarried, she was considered something of a spinster, perhaps a bit loony. Tall, cool, and aloof she seemed to passersby, playing a part that she had grown accustomed to over the years. She did not care for fancy dresses or domestic chores, though she wore the dresses and cooked the meals as she was expected to. She cleaned, mended, and attended to all the affairs expected of a lady. Too, she tended the livestock, aided with births of foals in their stables, and worked a substantial garden harvest without complaint.
In her spare time, she read. Her own room was littered with ancient scrolls she'd saved from being thrown out of a library in the great Golden Hall atop the hill, at Edoras. It had once been a seat of royalty, a place where the great kings of Rohan dwelt. Now, it was little more than a pretty building for people to look at. The last of the great Kings had gone nearly a thousand years before. Now, the people had an elected official tend to matters of the kingdom. The system seemed to work out alright, though Nyara sometimes wished they had a good and wise king to rule over them. She longed for things as they had once been.
Some of the parchments she had saved spoke of the Dark Lord Sauron and the War Of The Ring. Those she found the most fascinating, having read the thick pile of papers over and over again, so much that she was nearly positive she could recite the story by rote. She never tired of reading how the Nine Companions, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Aragorn (the great High King of Gondor, come and gone, as legend told, nearly two thousand years before her time), Boromir, Legolas, Gimli Elf-friend, and Gandalf the White had saved Middle-earth from the dominion of Sauron, by way of a magic ring forged thousands of years before. Their trials and triumphs awed her with their tragedy, and inspired her with their victory.
She learned of other great leaders from history. Her own personal heroine, Eowyn Shieldmaiden of Rohan, she never tired of learning about. How she'd gone to battle dressed in men's gear to protect her father and brother, and partly because she was stubborn enough to go despite strict orders for her to stay behind and mind the affairs of her home. Nyara couldn't help but admire her for that.
Then there was Faramir, and Eomer. Prince Imrahil had caught her attention as well, being lordly and of distant Elven blood. There were ruins of a castle by the sea, in Belfalas, that seemed coincidentally in exactly the same location as his was said to be. There with his people, all fair and gray-eyed and of noble bearing, he had aided Aragorn and Gandalf, and all of Middle-earth, in the battle with Sauron.
But what captured her attention above all things were the Elves. She had read every bit of lore on them that she could find, her mind soaking up the knowledge like a sponge. People of her time didn't believe in Elves, or Dwarves, or even the famed Halflings like Frodo and Sam. Objectively, she could see the blood of all three races in the Modern Men that inhabited Middle-earth today. Short, childlike men and women; tall, elegant people that bore an air of regality so noble that one was awestruck by the mere sight of them; and short, bearish, burly men and women with gruff attitudes and short tempers.
Of course, no one would admit such codswallup. It was not only unlikely as far as they were concerned; it was insane. Long ago, Nyara had learned not to spout off about her beliefs and hopes. People still whispered about her as she would pass, wondering if she was of stable mind or if she was crazy. And, just the same, long ago she had learned not to care. She had few friends, but as she had had few friends since her early childhood, she did not miss having more.
Her life was very much routine for the most part. She helped her mother with the daily chores, cooked, read, rode her horse. That was her life. Occasionally she would ride into Edoras for something her mother needed from the markets there, but mostly she spent her time in her room, reading. It was a quiet existence, one she yearned for escape from.
She didn't want to get married and bear children, as most young ladies were expected to do, and most certainly at an earlier age than nineteen. Of course, when your sanity is questioned you don't get many offers of marriage or calls for courting.
Nyara snorted and tossed back her long black hair. Her gray eyes flashed like lightning for a moment before she regained her composure. She wasn't crazy! She knew those old stories to be true, knew it in the deepest parts of her heart. But it didn't matter. There was no proof. Coincidence there was, to be sure, but who would buy coincidence for faith? No one that she had met so far, certainly.
Perhaps one day she would do as she had always dreamed, and set out on a quest to find Elves, and Dwarves, and Halflings. There were old maps of the kingdoms of old, maps that she could surely use to find these ancient races. It didn't sound difficult, but she wasn't thick enough to think that there would be no danger in it. Orcs still abounded in the outer regions of their kingdom. At least a few times a year someone would travel too far and get themselves killed. No one did anything about it either, because most people were content to lead their quiet lives without worrying about the rest of the world. Which, she always wanted to point out, were quite Halfling-like qualities indeed.
However, having no self-defensive skills of any kind, save the ability to kick shins like no one's business, Nyara didn't fancy running into any roving Orc parties. It likely wouldn't turn out well for her in the end, even if she should manage to kill one before it killed her. And dying, despite the neverending doldrums of her life, was not on the top of her list of fun things to do in her spare time.
So, in the meantime, she was content to read and dream about a life on her own. Dreams were a wonderful substitute for reality, she had always believed.
Finding herself quite far indeed from the Snowbourn, she turned Marabeth back toward home. It would be a good hour before she made it back home. A quick look at the sun told her she would be nearly on time for dinner if she hurried.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Haldir, your time has come," said a deep voice around him. Haldir looked up, seeing nothing but trees as far as his keen eyes could see. But the voice remained. A sudden knowing came upon him, and he knew that Lord Mandos was giving him his chance to return home, to Middle-earth, or to pass on and live forever in Elvenhome.
"Have you made your decision?" the voice asked of him.
Haldir stood and brushed off his long robes. Scarlet they were, the same robes he had died in so many centuries before. Surely Middle-earth must have changed greatly in so long a time.
"The Elves are mostly gone from Middle-earth," Haldir spoke aloud, his velvet voice, most characteristic of Elves, cutting across the crisp air before him. The voice made no reply, but he sensed it waiting. "There is something that you wish for me to do."
"Yes, Haldir, the Eldar have appointed a task for you. Have you made your decision?" it asked of him once more.
Haldir nodded. "Send me back," he said, and the world faded away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hope you enjoyed! More to come soon!
~Rhiana~