Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of The rings.
Please read...Author's note:
Hi, and welcomed to my second attempt to Lotr fan fiction. I want to mention two things before you star reading.
The first one is English, it's not my first language, so please forgive me for spelling mistakes, if anything is completely uncomprehensible tell me and I'll fix it.
Secondly, I don't do Pastiches! (a literary, musical, or artistic piece consisting wholly or chiefly of motifs or techniques borrowed from one or more sources) so don't expect this to be written straightly in a Tolkien style, because that is very difficult, and honestly, who could compare his/her writing to Tolkien's. I consider my writing style to be much more informal, which, of course isn't really appropriate for Lord of the Rings fan fiction, so it'll be more light than Tolkien's (and not so pro...) but more posh than mot of the things I've written.
Okay? Okay!
Prologue.
"Quick! Get her in, the poor thing is nothing but scared," exclaimed an old woman; a servant in the palace; picking up the girl by her dress' collar and pulling her inside, away from the wind and the rain.
The old woman looked at the a scrawny little girl standing before her. The child was shivering madly, standing as straight as she could in the chilly weather, holding tightly, with both of her hands a dripping-wet pillow. Little cold drops of water fell from her dark braids, and her clothes were so wet they stuck to her tiny frame. Swollen eyes, and a red nose proved this girl had been crying, for who knew how many hours, and that she was frightened, more than any child should ever be. She frowned in a mix of consternation and pity, and said, "wait here dear, I'll get the lady." ushering the girl to a stool by the kitchen's fire.
The girl just tightened her hold on her pillow, holding it against her small chest. burying her face in it. Shutting her eyes fiercely, she suppressed an anguished sob, forcing it to return to the knot in her throat where it belonged. She had cried enough, and yet, not nearly enough as she had wanted. After all, a mother's death is something for which you usually cry. The coldness that had overcame her in the houses of healing seemed to remain still, even there, where the fire danced so merrily, she felt it in her bones, and breath. She was merely six years old, yet she felt she'd never feel happiness again. First it was her father, her dear papa. He did not die in war, as she had always fear, but of a simple cold, which was, surely fate's cruelest caprice, since her grandfather was the warden of the houses of healing. Her mother followed her husband. She died of sorrow, or so she had heard, and once she had perished, the small child was left on her own, people fretted here and there, moving around, taking care of the deceased, washing her and mourning her. She was forced by fear and sadness to curl up in a small corner, sobbing alone, until her grandfather looked at her, smiled and took her hand, taking her to the Steward's wife who he knew would see to her, as he had once, along time ago, seen to her.
Suddenly, she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She jumped in surprise and saw a golden haired, woman smiling at her sweetly. Later, the girl would compare that sweet smile to the firm hand, and how strength and gentility seemed to converge, and live harmoniously in lady Eowyn.
"My lady," the servant whispered, "this is Ithildess, the warden's granddaughter."
Ithildess' eyes filled with warm water, and before she could do something about it, tears began falling, one by one, as she tried to hold her composure, keeping her sobs in her throat's knot. "My lady," she stuttered.
"Say nothing, child," Eowyn replied, "I'll take care of you."
Then the knot was undone. Ithildess broke down into a bundle of cries, sobs and incoherent phrases, as Eowyn held her close to her body, whispering comforting words and kissing her small damp head. "I miss my mama," sobbed Ithildess, as she began to fall asleep. "I miss my mama."
She closed her eyes and sighed, as she entered the realms of dream where no one ever died and happily ever after was granted.
"Poor thing, she is exhausted," sighed the servant, "it must have been the shock, my lady, imagine, she saw her own mother dead!"
"Yes, I'm afraid her mother's death caused quite a disturbance in the child's mind," agreed Eowyn. "I wonder, what will the warden do, keep her with him, or sent her away...I could keep her."
"Give the child here, my lady," the servant interjected, "after all, it's late and you must be tired. I'll look for a bed and then..."
"Nay," interrupted Eowyn, "I'll tend to her and take her upstairs."
"But," stammered the old woman, "my lady, really it's no nuisance at all, I'll do it, she'll sleep down here with the rest of the kitchen girls."
"Nonsense," insisted Eowyn, picking Ithildess in her arms, " she'll sleep in Elboron's room."
That said, the Steward's lady walked up the staircase into her son's bedroom, slowly opening his door, trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid it's cracking. Placing the girl on her son's large bed, she proceeded to unclothe her, removing her damp clothes and exchanging them for one of Elboron's rosemary scented, night gowns. Covering Ithildess with the mattress, laying her next her own son, she kissed the girl's forehead, remembering how she felt when she too lost her mother.
A/n: yes...boring prologue. Well at least for me, I promise, the rest of the story will be much more vivid and happy ;) Teenage years to come for Ithildess, Elboron, Eldarion and co. Ragging hormones and troubles! Review please.