Hehehe! You now get many all at once! Fear the muses! FEAR THEM!
~Phe-chan~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Andrea sat up in her beautiful bed and stretched. A wonderful night of uninterrupted repose upon a down mattress, beneath a velveteen coverlet, in a palace of Elves, listening to the soothing sound of raindrops on crystal windows had done much to improve her peace of mind. Still, yesterday's spat with Morniwen had hurt her deeply, and such wounds are not easily effaced. Get over it, she told herself; it's your own fault for nursing delusions. The Elf-lady is right.
With a small, sad sigh, she wrapped an elven-shawl around her muslin nightgown and went to her door. She might as well see what Galion could scrounge her up for breakfast. Galion was the butler. He was nice, but from the way he behaved (one could never really tell from the way these dratted immortals LOOKED) she suspected that he was an older elf.
As she opened the door, which chanced to open inward, she gave her loudest fangirl squeal. The palace reverberated, and such of the Elven- folk as were not wont to rise early - well, let us simply say that they did so anyway, straight through their chambers' roofs. There before the doorway she found paper, pens, ink... everything she could ever want to occupy herself with was there at her disposal.
"He got me an art set!" she sobbed, clutching the ornately carved wooden box in which she had found the brushes and paints. Very nearly inaudibly, she added, "He does care... just a little."
Andrea did not even wait to dress herself properly, but ran outside into the misted, rain-glittered forest in her shawl and gown, flopped down onto the wet grass, and began painting the picturesque scene around her. She worked feverishly to catch the spirit of the piece before the sun, which had just then begun to break through the clouds, a few hours after the rain had stopped, could burn away the fog and change to vapor the glistening dews. She hadn't even stopped to bring her glasses with her.
She worked so desperately and with such unadulterated joy that it came as a great and almost painful shock to her when she realized that she had finished. It was nearly noon. Looking at her work, she burst into tears once more: it was perfect. For the first time in her life, she had managed to paint what she saw, the way it truly was, yet with a beauty greater even than it had really owned. Andrea was not one to flatter herself. In fact, her way was one of self-deprecation, rather than self- importance, and yet...even she could not deny herself this victory...down to the last pearl hung in the last cowslip's ear, it was really and truly perfect.
"I stand rebuked, Little One," said a voice from behind her.
She could not help it; she glomped him. She held him so hard that he felt breath leave him.
"Andrea!" he gasped. "Little One, my honor!"
"What?" she asked, startled, letting him go and plopping back down on the grass.
"It is not proper that I who am courting someone should be in the arms of another," Legolas said, trying to catch his breath again.
"That was a friendly hug!" Andrea protested honestly. "I would never -"
"I know, Little One. You need not avouch your character in my eyes, but the tongues of elves wag even as humans' do."
"I just wanted to thank you for the art stuff," Andrea murmured piteously.
"You are most welcome. I stand rebuked for my former disbelief, for I see you have made good use of the stuffs I collected for you. It is most beautiful, Little Squee."
He indicated her painting. She blushed rose-red and questioned,
" 'Squee'?"
"You are always squeaking, squealing, or squeezing something or someone," Legolas shrugged wryly. "Thus I name you Squee."
"I like it," Andrea grinned shyly.
Legolas' insides did a strange spiraling somersault. He saw before him a little girl of fifteen; paint streaked across a small, pert nose; big brown eyes that watched him with puppy-like adoration; hair of copper silk; a tiny, fragile frame... Humans were NOT supposed to be this adorable! He had to get away from her, now - right now!
"Enjoy these things, Little Squee. I...must go."
"OK! See you later, Legolas! Thanks again!"
Her burbling giggle unnerved him still more. He turned and walked purposefully back towards the palace. Every stride he took was faster than the last. When he entered the corridor that divided his apartments, he was running harder than he remembered running in over a thousand years. Yet he was arrested in mid-stride by a single word.
"Cúedhel?"
Legolas literally stopped in his tracks, his chin lowered to his chest, his breath coming in ragged intervals. Morniwen would see straight through him, would know... his guilt would find him out... for he began to know that he loved this little mortal, and not the elven-lady he and his father had collaborated to choose for the young prince. What should he say?
"What is wrong, my archer?" Morniwen cooed, tracing the muscles of his shoulder with her finger, the gray shade of her skin, darker than most elves' and yet not quite the color of a human's, which had earned her epithet, clearly visible.
"I... I needed to run," Legolas told her truthfully.
From what he had been running, he did not say. She was silent for a time, resting her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to say more.
"I think, my Cúedhel," she said sagely at last, "that you need a respite. What do Men call it? A holiday. You are troubled here in this Mirkwood. Sojourn elsewhere with me for awhile. You may choose whatever companions you desire, and I shall choose mine. We will go to Rivendell, and then who knows? Perhaps from there we journey on to Aman. Not the long voyage yet, of course, but every elf must see Aman once before they journey there for eternity. Come with me!"
And her suggestion seemed good to the Elven-prince. He would leave the wood to see the wonders, and while he was about it, he would forget the little human child that caused him this inner confusion. Raising his head slowly, he nodded with a fearsome resolution.
"I will tell my father."
MAGIC BUTTON! MWAHAHA...ha?
~Phe-chan~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Andrea sat up in her beautiful bed and stretched. A wonderful night of uninterrupted repose upon a down mattress, beneath a velveteen coverlet, in a palace of Elves, listening to the soothing sound of raindrops on crystal windows had done much to improve her peace of mind. Still, yesterday's spat with Morniwen had hurt her deeply, and such wounds are not easily effaced. Get over it, she told herself; it's your own fault for nursing delusions. The Elf-lady is right.
With a small, sad sigh, she wrapped an elven-shawl around her muslin nightgown and went to her door. She might as well see what Galion could scrounge her up for breakfast. Galion was the butler. He was nice, but from the way he behaved (one could never really tell from the way these dratted immortals LOOKED) she suspected that he was an older elf.
As she opened the door, which chanced to open inward, she gave her loudest fangirl squeal. The palace reverberated, and such of the Elven- folk as were not wont to rise early - well, let us simply say that they did so anyway, straight through their chambers' roofs. There before the doorway she found paper, pens, ink... everything she could ever want to occupy herself with was there at her disposal.
"He got me an art set!" she sobbed, clutching the ornately carved wooden box in which she had found the brushes and paints. Very nearly inaudibly, she added, "He does care... just a little."
Andrea did not even wait to dress herself properly, but ran outside into the misted, rain-glittered forest in her shawl and gown, flopped down onto the wet grass, and began painting the picturesque scene around her. She worked feverishly to catch the spirit of the piece before the sun, which had just then begun to break through the clouds, a few hours after the rain had stopped, could burn away the fog and change to vapor the glistening dews. She hadn't even stopped to bring her glasses with her.
She worked so desperately and with such unadulterated joy that it came as a great and almost painful shock to her when she realized that she had finished. It was nearly noon. Looking at her work, she burst into tears once more: it was perfect. For the first time in her life, she had managed to paint what she saw, the way it truly was, yet with a beauty greater even than it had really owned. Andrea was not one to flatter herself. In fact, her way was one of self-deprecation, rather than self- importance, and yet...even she could not deny herself this victory...down to the last pearl hung in the last cowslip's ear, it was really and truly perfect.
"I stand rebuked, Little One," said a voice from behind her.
She could not help it; she glomped him. She held him so hard that he felt breath leave him.
"Andrea!" he gasped. "Little One, my honor!"
"What?" she asked, startled, letting him go and plopping back down on the grass.
"It is not proper that I who am courting someone should be in the arms of another," Legolas said, trying to catch his breath again.
"That was a friendly hug!" Andrea protested honestly. "I would never -"
"I know, Little One. You need not avouch your character in my eyes, but the tongues of elves wag even as humans' do."
"I just wanted to thank you for the art stuff," Andrea murmured piteously.
"You are most welcome. I stand rebuked for my former disbelief, for I see you have made good use of the stuffs I collected for you. It is most beautiful, Little Squee."
He indicated her painting. She blushed rose-red and questioned,
" 'Squee'?"
"You are always squeaking, squealing, or squeezing something or someone," Legolas shrugged wryly. "Thus I name you Squee."
"I like it," Andrea grinned shyly.
Legolas' insides did a strange spiraling somersault. He saw before him a little girl of fifteen; paint streaked across a small, pert nose; big brown eyes that watched him with puppy-like adoration; hair of copper silk; a tiny, fragile frame... Humans were NOT supposed to be this adorable! He had to get away from her, now - right now!
"Enjoy these things, Little Squee. I...must go."
"OK! See you later, Legolas! Thanks again!"
Her burbling giggle unnerved him still more. He turned and walked purposefully back towards the palace. Every stride he took was faster than the last. When he entered the corridor that divided his apartments, he was running harder than he remembered running in over a thousand years. Yet he was arrested in mid-stride by a single word.
"Cúedhel?"
Legolas literally stopped in his tracks, his chin lowered to his chest, his breath coming in ragged intervals. Morniwen would see straight through him, would know... his guilt would find him out... for he began to know that he loved this little mortal, and not the elven-lady he and his father had collaborated to choose for the young prince. What should he say?
"What is wrong, my archer?" Morniwen cooed, tracing the muscles of his shoulder with her finger, the gray shade of her skin, darker than most elves' and yet not quite the color of a human's, which had earned her epithet, clearly visible.
"I... I needed to run," Legolas told her truthfully.
From what he had been running, he did not say. She was silent for a time, resting her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to say more.
"I think, my Cúedhel," she said sagely at last, "that you need a respite. What do Men call it? A holiday. You are troubled here in this Mirkwood. Sojourn elsewhere with me for awhile. You may choose whatever companions you desire, and I shall choose mine. We will go to Rivendell, and then who knows? Perhaps from there we journey on to Aman. Not the long voyage yet, of course, but every elf must see Aman once before they journey there for eternity. Come with me!"
And her suggestion seemed good to the Elven-prince. He would leave the wood to see the wonders, and while he was about it, he would forget the little human child that caused him this inner confusion. Raising his head slowly, he nodded with a fearsome resolution.
"I will tell my father."
MAGIC BUTTON! MWAHAHA...ha?