Author's note:
Before you begin reading this, I would like to state that this is a Mary Sue. Yes. It is a blatant Mary Sue, and the embellished flowery language helps to emphasise that. It was a dark and stormy night when I - despite my dislike for bad pieces of fiction based on Tolkien's works - decided to write a LotR Mary Sue, in which:
(a) the canon is completely mauled;
(b) Tolkien's original version of the events after the War of the Ring; and
(c) is a maudlin sentimental sop story.
Already my Author's note is too long, so I shall conclude by saying:
And so here we have Rose of Narthien - a tale of romance, passion, and Legolas.
- - - - - - - - - -
The evening sun shone down relentlessly upon her strong back as the wrinkled peasant woman slowly and carefully made her way towards the rippling stream. She exhaustedly wiped the dripping sweat out of her squinted eyes, away from her weathered face, as she walked on, a heavy bucket of wood in her hand.
It was a routine trip to the stream. She had made this quick journey day after day, for years upon years. A short walk to the stream by the big tree, it was. No more, no less. She never suspected that this one trip would change her life forever.
When she at last reached her destination, she bent down and, with experienced hands, filled her bucket with the fresh, cool water. Suddenly, she heard the soft mewling of... was it a baby? No, it could not be. Why would there be a baby in the middle of the woods? It had to be a young animal. A bear, perhaps? But, no, that was ridiculous. Bears did not sound like so. The woman was doubtlessly startled, yet her curiosity was aroused. She straightened herself, stood up, glanced around with her alert eyes. And, lo! There upon the bank of the stream, behind a lush bush, was a baby, a young girl swaddled in soft cloths.
Slowly her calloused hands reached out towards the tiny child and cradled her gently. O, such a tiny child she was! A feathery wisp of golden hair upon her small, round head hung over its clear eyes of piercing blue. The peasant woman softly stroked her smooth, delicate cheek and pouting mouth, red as rose petals.
But who has left this child here? the woman thought to herself. Who is the cruel soul who has left this child alone by the stream? And the baby girl cried on, yet now she cried soundlessly, her mouth open in the action of crying although no sound came from it.
"Hush, hush, my child, cry not, my love..." the peasant woman whispered quietly in an attempt to pacify the child. "Cry not, cry not..." The woman made her way back to her dilapidated wooden hut, moving as carefully as she could for fear of further distressing the baby, her half-filled bucket abandoned on the sandy bank of the stream.
When she arrived back at the run-down hut that was her home, the peasant woman laid the small child upon her bed of straw in the far corner of the essentially bare room. Comfortingly, she sang to the baby, singing songs that she barely remembered, songs that her mother had once sung to her when she herself was no more than a babe. Gradually, the tiny baby's cries ceased, and she slept soundly and contentedly on the dusty haystack of a bed. The peasant woman smiled, satisfied. She had never had a child, never wanted one, no, not since her husband had died while out hunting, killed by a ruthless bear awoken from its hibernation. But this child, this child was not hers, yet she could not for the life of her leave the poor thing out in the wilderness all alone. Yes, she would keep the child and raise the child as her own.
There was nary a rustling of leaves as an Elf backed away from a tree by the paneless window, unseen. He turned swiftly and ran over the rolling green plains, his long golden hair a-flying and flashing in the sun.
Before you begin reading this, I would like to state that this is a Mary Sue. Yes. It is a blatant Mary Sue, and the embellished flowery language helps to emphasise that. It was a dark and stormy night when I - despite my dislike for bad pieces of fiction based on Tolkien's works - decided to write a LotR Mary Sue, in which:
(a) the canon is completely mauled;
(b) Tolkien's original version of the events after the War of the Ring; and
(c) is a maudlin sentimental sop story.
Already my Author's note is too long, so I shall conclude by saying:
And so here we have Rose of Narthien - a tale of romance, passion, and Legolas.
The evening sun shone down relentlessly upon her strong back as the wrinkled peasant woman slowly and carefully made her way towards the rippling stream. She exhaustedly wiped the dripping sweat out of her squinted eyes, away from her weathered face, as she walked on, a heavy bucket of wood in her hand.
It was a routine trip to the stream. She had made this quick journey day after day, for years upon years. A short walk to the stream by the big tree, it was. No more, no less. She never suspected that this one trip would change her life forever.
When she at last reached her destination, she bent down and, with experienced hands, filled her bucket with the fresh, cool water. Suddenly, she heard the soft mewling of... was it a baby? No, it could not be. Why would there be a baby in the middle of the woods? It had to be a young animal. A bear, perhaps? But, no, that was ridiculous. Bears did not sound like so. The woman was doubtlessly startled, yet her curiosity was aroused. She straightened herself, stood up, glanced around with her alert eyes. And, lo! There upon the bank of the stream, behind a lush bush, was a baby, a young girl swaddled in soft cloths.
Slowly her calloused hands reached out towards the tiny child and cradled her gently. O, such a tiny child she was! A feathery wisp of golden hair upon her small, round head hung over its clear eyes of piercing blue. The peasant woman softly stroked her smooth, delicate cheek and pouting mouth, red as rose petals.
But who has left this child here? the woman thought to herself. Who is the cruel soul who has left this child alone by the stream? And the baby girl cried on, yet now she cried soundlessly, her mouth open in the action of crying although no sound came from it.
"Hush, hush, my child, cry not, my love..." the peasant woman whispered quietly in an attempt to pacify the child. "Cry not, cry not..." The woman made her way back to her dilapidated wooden hut, moving as carefully as she could for fear of further distressing the baby, her half-filled bucket abandoned on the sandy bank of the stream.
When she arrived back at the run-down hut that was her home, the peasant woman laid the small child upon her bed of straw in the far corner of the essentially bare room. Comfortingly, she sang to the baby, singing songs that she barely remembered, songs that her mother had once sung to her when she herself was no more than a babe. Gradually, the tiny baby's cries ceased, and she slept soundly and contentedly on the dusty haystack of a bed. The peasant woman smiled, satisfied. She had never had a child, never wanted one, no, not since her husband had died while out hunting, killed by a ruthless bear awoken from its hibernation. But this child, this child was not hers, yet she could not for the life of her leave the poor thing out in the wilderness all alone. Yes, she would keep the child and raise the child as her own.
There was nary a rustling of leaves as an Elf backed away from a tree by the paneless window, unseen. He turned swiftly and ran over the rolling green plains, his long golden hair a-flying and flashing in the sun.