...Of the Dunedain: Leola
Disclaimer:
I still don't own anything except the voices inside my head.
"I am not proud, but I am happy; and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride." — Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo)
A.N.
Startin' this bad boy out with a flashback. Angst!warning. And if you really wanna cheer yourself up after this depressing little peice of filler, go watch Viggo Mortensen's speech from the 2009 Empire Awards. He was a bit squiffy and all but definately on the best, most articulate acceptance speeches I have ever heard.
She laughed freely, her hair cascading around her as she fell back into the grass. Théo toppled down beside her, breathing heavily, as he took her into his arms.
"How is it you run so fast?" he teased, his eyes bright and shining. Those eyes of his...They twinklined like... Like twin stars on a clear night.
"I'm like a doe... At least, folks tell me I am!" She laughed again and wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled into his hair and neck. He smelled of leather and horse and sweat.
"Mmmm... So fair and dear a maid their was
Running through the hills of the Mark
Her sweet voice like that of a lark..." He too burst into laughter as he shook his head. "Mercy, don't tell my father of my poetic musings. I rather think he'd have my head."
"You're good with a sword in hand, sweet Prince. You're made for leading your people, not for writing poems and lays. It's others that'll do that for you."
He pulled her closer to him if that were even possible for him to do. She did not think it could be. They were so close already... So close...
"I-" he began.
She hushed him. "Enjoy this moment." she told him softly.
Leola's eyes were red and bloodshot as Éowyn concluded her funeral lament and their Prince was taken in by the earth, the final womb, where forever he would sleep.
Bealo. An evil death... There were no other words for it. Her dear Théo had fallen cold and dead. There was so much left she should have said or should have let him say but never did. It wasn't right. He should've had a real princess. Not me. She was left standing there long after everyone else had departed for the Feast. They had mourned him and now it was time to celebrate him yet she was in no mood to celebrate him. She would wear black forever and rip out her hair if she had too but she would not celebrate this.
"Walk with me, little doe." came the voice of Théoden-King suddenly and from seemingly no where. He was twirling Evermind between his fingers quite absentmindedly when he put it behind her ear. He gave her his arm and they began to walk, taking heavy, tenative steps. It was as though the ground was going to give in underneath their feet. "He cared for you deeply, it seems... And you for him?"
"Aye...Aye, I do...Did... I do." She looked away, ashamed and embarassed. He reached up and touched the flower he had placed in her hair.
"Simbelmynë..." he murmurred, his eyes clouded by an overwhelming grief. "Ever has it grown on the tombs of my forebearers." He looked into her eyes and she felt her soul shutter and then shatter almost completely. This man who was her King had endured so much. How much more could he bear? "Now, it shall cover the grave of my son. Alas that these days should be mine..."
And he said no more. She took his rough hands into her own. His hands we so much like Théodred's... She squeezed them gently and imagine for a moment they her Théodred's . Then she looked up and her fantasy was left broken and scattered in the wind.
"No parent should have to bury their child." he said after much time. His shoulders began to shake and she realized he was sobbing silently. She threw her arms around him and held him awhile.
"He was so strong, King. So very strong and brave. His soul will find those of your forefathers and all the other great heroes we sing of. I know he will." she said with great force as the tears began to roll down her face.
Even she had a hard time believing herself.
She avoided the feast entirely and retired to her own room. She found a little note that had been taken down in much haste and gently placed on her bed. It read, rendered here in the Common Tongue:
"So fair and dear a maid there was
Running through the hills of the Mark
Her with her sweet voice like that of a lark
She captured my heart.
She moved swifter than any doe
And best any man in a race
And with her fair face
She shot an arrow through my heart
She sang when she was silent
She danced when she walked
And glittered like the stars when she talked
She brought me to life..."
There was more but she could not read it for the tears in her eyes.
A.N.:
Told you it was depressing...